


The Pill

by mark_my_words_tonight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Ciri is the only smart one, Drugs, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Talks About Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Nightmares, Post Episode Fix-It, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sleepy Cuddles, Torture, dad!Geralt, eventually, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23660821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mark_my_words_tonight/pseuds/mark_my_words_tonight
Summary: After the mountain, Jaskier left. He didn't bother with Geralt of Rivia anymore and went to find his own way. Unfortunately, with a war on the horizon and Nilfgaard's pursuits of his ex-friend, danger looms heavily over the bard. He has an out though; a pill given to him by the very sorceress he can't stand.When he is captured, he uses his last escape.What he didn't foresee, however, was that the pill would grab onto the last things he had left: his memories.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 716
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! This is my first time writing for this pairing so, I apologize if there are any OOC moments. This was originally supposed to be a one-shot with about three thousand words. It turned into a two (maybe three chaptered? I haven't decided yet) monstrosity. Suffice it to say, this story most certainly got away from me. I'll be posting the last chapters very soon!
> 
> Content warning: There are *very* graphic depictions of torture and extensive descriptions of injuries sustained from torture. If you're sensitive to these types of things, please beware!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

The tiny pill with the opaque casing and the milky white magical substance that always seemed to glow, could fit in the palm of Jaskier’s hand and still look insignificant. However, it was anything but.

His fingers fumbled to lock the door of his inn lodgings behind him as he rushed to the bed. He collapsed onto his knees, wincing at the sting that erupted through them before grabbing the bag he had hidden beneath the bed. He tore open the bag, his adrenaline running on high and pushing all other thoughts out of his head, as he grabbed the box within. Inside the delicately carved box, there sat a vial, and inside that vial? An infinitesimally small pill. The substance that filled the opaque casing glowed so brightly the entire box shined with a soft, ethereal light.

He ripped open the vial and tossed the cork aside, upturning the bottle and watching as the pill fell into the palm of his hand weightlessly. A tremor ran through his body as he remembered the circumstances of which the pill came into his possession.

_ Tears filled his cornflower blue eyes and slipped down his frozen, tinted pink cheeks. He promised himself he wouldn’t cry. A rock tripped him up as he desperately made his way down the mountainside and he fell, hard, onto his knees. “Fuck!” tore from his throat, leaving him to double over with a hollow chest and aching heart. As soon as the aches subsided, he allowed numbness to take their place. Numbness, he decided, was far better than the fucking  _ destroyed  _ feeling Geralt had left him with. The worst part, however, the reason why he wasn’t turning around to punch the daylights out of Geralt of Rivia was that… he had to leave. He would always give the oaf whatever he wanted, would always stick around even though Geralt was quite literally fucking around with a mage, and if he didn’t leave now, he never would. _

_ He pounded the ground once before clambering to his feet. He would not cry over Geralt of Rivia. He would not cry over the White Wolf or the fondness his heart felt for the witcher, or even the warmth that used to permeate every single bone in his body when he was with him. The Butcher of Blaviken did not deserve his heart or his tears. _

_ So, he walked. He walked down the mountainside, down a path that would surely lead him away from his so-called friend. He fought creatures and nearly died as they desperately clawed at his body. He escaped and walked until the muscles in his legs cried out in pain and screamed at him to falter, and yet, he didn’t. Distantly, he strummed a few strings on his lute, longing for the sound to come out as beautifully and transcendently as it once had. Instead, it came out broken and discordant. Perhaps, he supposed, like him. _

_ And so, the bard kept going. He wandered from town to town, desperately trying to sing happy tunes that would bewitch the masses, and yet, they fell flat. Soon, his purse became light and his stomach empty. Any new material he wrote rang out sadly and, in the midst of a quickly ratcheting war, no one wanted to hear sadness. They had enough of it and so had Jaskier. _

_ He sighed as he threw the last coins he had onto the bar and managed to get himself lodgings for the night. The stink of piss and ale that permeated the backwater inn was nearly enough to run him out of the town entirely, but alas, the inn was cheap and Jaskier was tired. _

_ He stumbled up to his room and collapsed onto the bed, waiting to fall into a fitful sleep. Of course, that simply wasn’t in the cards because, for some incomprehensible reason, the world of the supernatural could never leave him alone. A whoosh of dust and dirt whipped up into a frenzy, forming a circle in the middle of the room, and Yennefer stepped through. He cursed and stared at the mage, who wore a stunning black dress, which Geralt would find delicious, he thought bitterly.  _

_ “Yennefer?” he asked, his voice broken. He nearly gaped at how pitiful it sounded. _

_ “Hello, little bard,” Yen said with an air of disinterest.  _

_ “What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see your lovely face, but I thought you and Geralt had run off into the sunset together. Gone off to slay monsters and weave chaos.” Jaskier couldn’t help the spike of bitter pain that ran through him. After all, it used to just be him and Geralt, going off on their adventures and skirting the line of life and death. Then, Yennefer came along and fucked it all to hell. _

_ Yennefer let out a breathless, half-laugh. “I’m not traveling with Geralt at the moment, little bard, and I’m not here for idle gossip. I’m here to warn you of certain… events that are transpiring in Nilfgaard.” _

_ “I know. They’re having their usual; food, women, wine, and a little bit of that pleasant chaos. Causing right hell for the townsfolk and making them all tighten up their purse strings.” _

_ “Right, well, they’ve caused Cintra to fall. I came to warn you that Nilfgaard soldiers know of any and all involvement when it comes to our dear witcher, and you might find yourself in danger.” _

_ “Lovely. Perfect. Just another example of Geralt’s wonderful presence in my life. Now, I’m trying to get some well-deserved beauty rest and pesky sorceresses like you interrupt that,” Jaskier said, lying back further on his bed and hooking one ankle over the other. He raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge. _

_ “My point, bard, is that if a Nilfgaard soldier gets a hold of you, your resolve to be a good little dog to Geralt likely won’t hold,” Yennefer said, stepping up to the foot of the bed and watching Jaskier with those unnervingly vibrant violet eyes. “So, if you’re captured, you’re to take this.” She opened her palm to reveal a vial, inside which a small pill sat. _

_ “Ooh, wondrous. Is this your latest in a string of attempts to get me killed, mage? If it is, it isn’t exactly _ subtle.  _ What if I don’t take your little pill, huh?” _

_ “Then you betray Geralt and all of the Continent. How’s that for side effects?” _

_Jaskier snatched the vial from her hands, not wanting to admit how, even though Geralt had tossed him aside like he was nothing more than a common dung beetle, he still recoiled at the thought of hurting him. “What does it do? Make my toes shrivel and fall off? Burn off my eyebrows and put warts all over my luscious_ _skin?”_ _he quipped, throwing Yen a sharp grin._

_ “Pray you never have to find out,” she said, turning her back on Jaskier. _

_ “Oh, well, that’s very specific. It’s not like you could bloody _ tell me _ what would happen. No, no. You’ve got to be all ominous and darkly mysterious about it!” _

_ Yennefer chuckled and threw Jaskier an almost smug smirk before another portal swallowed her up. _

_ “Bloody mages.” Jaskier bit back the urge to throw the vial to the ground and smash it underneath his heel. He unhooked his ankles and relaxed further into his bed, turning the vial over in his hands. One pill, imbued with magic, most likely, seeing as a mage gave it to him. He popped the vial open and allowed the pill to topple into his hands. _

_ It held a glow he knew right then would haunt him forever. He held it up, bringing it closer and closer to his face, until- _

A series of loud thuds rang out, bringing Jaskier back to the present. His time was up. Now or never, he supposed and brought the pill to his lips. The door slammed open just as he forced the pill into his mouth and swallowed. A blur edged at the corner of his vision as a soldier, dressed in coal-black armor with what looked like veins etched into the metal, stepped forward.

Jaskier got to his feet and put on his trademark smirk. “What took you so long, you lovely,  _ strapping _ young men? I swear, I’ve been lonely and utterly  _ saddened _ here just waiting for you. Even had time to powder my nose and don my best fineries.”

The knight drew a small dagger, not bothering with his sword, and stepped closer to Jaskier, until they were nearly sharing the same air. He wore a smirk of his own. Though, in Jaskier’s opinion, it was far cockier. Jaskier was, if nothing else, humble. “You think you’re so funny and so damned smart, bard, but we found you,” he said, bringing the dagger up and pushing the tip of it up against Jaskier’s neck.

“I wasn’t hiding, d-darling.” The words fell from his mouth with a slight slur. He chuckled breathlessly, nervous, but unclear as to why. The knight’s face began to blur and the colors of the world began to run. Unsteady on his feet, he swayed, inky black mixing in with the unfocused world, and he fell. He crumpled to the ground and allowed the world to go dark.

* * *

He awoke to a splitting headache and a disabling fuzziness all over. His mouth and throat felt like they had been stuffed full of cotton. Then, the world slowly shifted further into place. He had been stripped of his shirt, leaving him in only his trousers. His wrists ached, bound by manacles he then found himself strung up by. Instinctively, he yanked at his bindings, trying in vain to free himself. “Shit,” he mumbled.

Where the absolute, ever-loving  _ fuck  _ was he?

His gaze flicked around the room, consuming every detail. The ‘room’ was actually a cell in what was clearly a dungeon. Puddles of disgusting water dotted the floor and the putrid stench of mildew and rot filled the air. A grate sat in the ceiling directly above him, allowing light to cascade down and bring sharp clarity to his bound form. A table sat off to his right and upon first glance, you might not see anything wrong, and yet, a cold, immobilizing feeling struck directly into the center of his chest. It made his heart beat faster and his palms slick with sweat. On the table sat a tray of knives; thin and thick, long and short, sharpened and dull - as well as whips, needles, and a small device with three metal bars and a screw on the top, presumably to tighten it. 

However, he didn’t have time to ruminate as, seconds later, the metal door directly across from him was thrown open. A man with a scraggly beard in a dark jacket with equally dark trousers, flanked by two men in black, veined armor stepped into the room.

The bearded man stepped closer to him, an unnerving smirk upon his face. “Do you know who I am, bardling?” he asked, his deep voice soft and malicious.

With his bound wrists aching and his mind still fuzzy, he could only reply, “No.” He winced as his voice cracked.

The bearded man’s brown eyes fixed on him as he started circling around him with the air of a man who had long since been a predator. “Well, I know you, Jaskier. Oh, I’m sorry. Should I say Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove instead?”

_ Julian?  _ Was that his name? His fuzzy world couldn’t comprehend it. So, instead, he did the next best thing; running his mouth until things made more sense. “Is there a  _ reason  _ I’m strung up like cattle or are you just living out some of your deepest,  _ darkest  _ fantasies? Well, I can’t say I’m opposed. Though, bondage isn’t really my area-” 

“Silence. I don’t care for idle chatter. You see, I’ve heard you have some very pretty songs to sing about a certain witcher.”

Julian - Jaskier? - clenched his jaw. His head whirled, thoughts spinning in a chaotic void of emptiness. “I haven’t the faintest idea what on  _ earth _ you’re talking about. If I’d met a witcher, you’d have heard about it. Trust me on that one,” he said.

The bearded man’s smirk never faltered. “Looks like the little lark refuses to sing for us. How terribly tragic.” His tone indicated, however, that it was  _ not  _ terribly tragic at all. Slowly, the man shed his jacket, revealing a thin, cream-colored shirt stained with dark spots of…  _ blood.  _ It looked like it had never been washed since its purchase.

The man crossed to the table with the tray on it and picked up a long, thin blade. He twirled it in his fingers, eyes holding contact with Julian’s own. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia and his little lion cub.”

A spark of annoyance mixed with pure, unadulterated desperation roared in Julian’s gut. “I don’t know this Geralt you speak of or the-the  _ lion _ cub! I  _ swear  _ it! Just let me down from these cuffs and we can have a nice chat about-”

The first cut came as a shock. Burning pain erupted from where the blade met his skin, slashing a strip just below his collarbone. “Fuck,” he hissed as blood slipped down his chest in small rivulets.

“I’ll ask again, bardling,” the man said. “Where is Geralt of Rivia?”

“I don’t know!” Julian cried again.

And so it repeated. The bearded man would ask a question, Julian would reply with the only response he had, and a cut was made. Over and over, it happened until blood spilled down his chest, painting it into a stomach-turning portrait. 

Eventually, the man grew tired of his knives and turned to whips. The loud crack came and pain burst across his skin. Tears spilled down his face, mixing with sweat. “Please!” he would beg and cry, and still the pain would not stop. With every moment, his world became sharper, and things began coming back to him.

Then, the man set down the whip and grabbed a butcher’s knife. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia, or I will start cutting off your fingers. You need those to play your precious little lute, don’t you, lark? Don’t you need them to play your tunes of mutants and monsters?”

Julian’s throat had long since been filled with razors and had been made raw by hours - or was it minutes? Days? - of screaming. “Please,” he croaked. 

The man simply sneered and came close to him; close enough for Julian to feel the other man’s hot breath on his face and he allowed his eyes to slip closed. “Disgusting witcher’s whore,” the man spat. Julian winced as he felt the spit land on his cheeks and chin.

Seconds later, a fist made contact with his face, and his eyes filled with stars. The tangy copper of blood permeated his mouth and he coughed it up, allowing it to dribble down the sides of his mouth. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see his fingers get mutilated. Then, the tell-tale sound of footsteps rang out, then a clatter of metal on metal, and finally, the thud of a heavy, metal door slamming closed.

His eyes opened and he found the room to be empty. The tray had been left on the table, tools stained with blood.  _ His  _ blood. Bile rose up his throat and, before he could stop himself, he threw up all over the stone floor. He couldn’t even wipe his mouth for god’s sake.

Blood still oozed down his chest and pain overwhelmed him. His throat and wrists shared the same raw ache and his torso screamed in agony. Whoever Geralt of Rivia was, he had condemned him to this.

It wasn’t long after that day that the dripping started.

* * *

At first, it felt good. A nice drip of water that was a welcome change from the pain that riddled his body. It fell from the grate above his head and he reveled it in, enjoying every moment. However, the torture continued. Julian wasn’t sure how long it went on. He just knew that, when the sun went down, one single meal would be brought to him and he would be fed. Beyond that, he ate nothing and drank nothing. Sometimes, he almost thought the knight giving it to him looked… sympathetic. However, that simply couldn’t be true, even if it was always the same man. The days soon blurred together in a flurry of screams.

He found it easiest to repeat a couple of words over and over.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t  _ know _ who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Soon, the bearded man whose name Julian did not know, brought red-hot brands. They burnt his skin, melting it and sending waves of fiery pain through him. The knives and whips seemed to be on a rotation, but the one constant was that little drip of water.

Every few seconds, a small drip would land on the crown of his head. Even during the hours when he was mutilated. 

His body shook from exertion, every muscle wanting to give up, to give in. He wished he knew the answer to their questions. He just wanted it to stop. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t  _ know _ who Geralt of Rivia is.”

His mind became clearer and more fogged at the same time. That once welcome drip became insufferable. His skull ached with it until it became a pounding instead of a drip. Over and over it would come. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t  _ know _ who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Soon, white-hot pain became a constant he could depend on. He learned to live with it. Even when they broke his fingers with the barred device, apparently called a thumbscrew. He simply lived with the pain. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t  _ know _ who Geralt of Rivia is.”

After that, every few days, a dark-skinned woman in long, flowing robes would come in. She would chant and whisper in his ears and feed him herbal mixes. Every once in a while, she would curse and say a feminine name under her breath. It was familiar and yet completely foreign. His mind became more splintered on those days and after she left, he would have a pounding headache.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t  _ know _ who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Sleep came in fitful moments that never truly left him feeling rested. His mind sunk into a desperate state of confusion. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t  _ know _ who Geralt of Rivia is.”

The words he kept repeating to himself slowly started to slip through his fingers. They melted into a flurry of ‘pleases’ and ‘don’ts.’ 

He just wanted it to end. Why wouldn’t it end? His eyes itched and his throat burned from the power of his sobs. The tears reminded him of that omnipresent drip that haunted him.

_ Drip. _

_ Drip. _

_ Drip. _

“Somebody help me,” he whispered, in the dead of night, when he was absolutely sure no one would hear him.

* * *

Sweat poured down his back as he raised the axe, swinging it down in a brutal swipe. The log split down the middle, coming apart in two neat pieces. Monsters never came apart this easily, Geralt thought absent-mindedly as he split another log.

The wood would be good for making fire and would be desperately needed as the chill in the air increased with each passing day. The cold autumn sun shone down upon the little cabin in the middle of the vast forest. Ciri sat upon the small steps leading up to the door, humming a soft tune and twirling a small dagger as a breeze swept through the trees, making the grass dance and the leaves shake.

All in all, it should have been peaceful. It  _ was  _ peaceful, except for… well, except for his nightmares. Geralt couldn’t get the image of two bright blue eyes, ringed with gold near the center, and the way they shone with unshed tears. The picture of a face usually lit up with happiness falling into something unrecognizable and cold. A mouth so fond of words becoming nearly speechless. 

_ “That’s not fair.” _

He brought the axe down, ripping the piece of wood in two.

_ “See you around, Geralt.” _

Geralt tossed the axe aside, not caring where it landed. A gentle hand appeared on his bicep and tugged on his arm. “Come on, Geralt. It’s getting cold out here,” Ciri said, tucking her dagger into a sheath on her hip. It was no colder than it had been earlier, besides the gentle breeze, which made him realize her true angle. He recognized the act of kindness for what it was and gave her a tight smile and a pat on the head.

Ciri smiled and slapped his hand away. “Your hands are so filthy,” she complained with no real heat behind her words.

“Hmm. Only because I’m cutting wood to keep  _ you  _ warm,” he said, his lips quirking a little.

Ciri scrunched up her nose. “You know you get cold too, Geralt. Now, can we please go inside?” 

He patted her head again and Ciri giggled, hitting his hand once more then gathering some of the wood into her arms. She trudged into the house, light blonde hair streaked with the tiniest bit of dirt. Geralt picked up the rest of the firewood and carried it inside, humming a soft tune to himself. It took him a moment to recognize it, to really  _ hear  _ what he was singing, and immediately, guilt filled him and he froze on the doorstep into the house. His chest clenched and a familiar voice came into his thoughts, unbidden.

_ “Toss a coin to your witcher, oh Valley of Plenty.” _

He bit back a curse, remembering the deep, lilting tone with ease. In fact, he couldn’t get that damn voice out of his head. Not for a lack of trying, though. He shook his head and headed further into the abode. The bundle of wood in his arms felt heavy, even though he knew it couldn’t be. 

He set the wood down and took to making a fire, Ciri sitting next to him and observing his movements. For a while, the pair stayed quiet, not a word being spoken. Geralt used to pray for that, used to pray for his blessed silence, yet when he got it, he wanted to throw it away in exchange for soft smiles and endless chatter.

_ “I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.” _

_ “I’m here to drink alone.” _

_ “Good. Yeah, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less _ _.” _

The fire began to spark and catch on the wood as he used Igni to light it. Ciri’s eyes shone with wonder as she gazed upon the flames that quickly swallowed the logs before them. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through Geralt’s chest. Even though he would never admit it, he had come to rather care for the child that destiny thrust upon him.

Ciri brought her hands up and let the fire warm them, rubbing them together every so often. “When is Yennefer coming back?” she asked, eyes still focused on the flames dancing in the hearth.

Geralt sighed, sitting back and allowing the fire to mesmerize him. “I don’t know.”

Ciri stared at him as if waiting for him to elaborate or provide a longer answer. “Ever the conversationalist,” she mumbled, going back to admiring the fire created by magic. A pang jolted through Geralt and his chest constricted, making it feel ten times too small for his heart. Why on earth did she have to be so similar to… to  _ him? _ Destiny and its endless taunting, he supposed, and internally cursed it once more.

The day soon fell into a cold, suffocating night and inky blackness filled the sky. Still, he stayed sitting on the hard, wooden planks in front of the fire. He knew that, in the morning, the stars would be drowned out by a frosty dawn and a new sun would rise, then he would regret his lack of sleep, but that was the problem of tomorrow’s Geralt. When did he become a poet anyway? Scratch that, he knew  _ exactly  _ when, but knowing and admitting… well, they were very different things.

The absence of endless, mind-numbing chatter and the strumming of a lute as a soft voice worked its way through countless renditions of the same song…

It hit him harder than he expected.

_ What are we looking for again? _

_ Blessed silence. _

_ Yeah, I don’t really go in for that. _

Ciri, thick blanket in hand, made her way over to Geralt and plopped herself down next to him. Without a word, she moved his arm and curled into his side. Instinctively, he pulled the girl closer, his heart warming at the lack of fear in her scent. He hated constantly being able to smell emotions. It made him feel unnatural and freakish, though, he supposed that was true. After all, if enough people scream something at you whilst also spitting on you and cursing the very ground you walk on, you begin to believe it.

However, the little lion cub of Cintra never had a hint of fear in her scent. Not in regards to him, at the very least. The essence of daisies and petrichor clung to her, filling the air. The girl had come into his life like a storm, so it was only fitting that she smelled like one, he supposed.

He held her that way as the fire crackled steadily in the hearth and the night continued on. Soon though, he heard those soft, tell-tale snores coming from Ciri and chuckled. A gleeful, fond feeling filled his chest and settled in his stomach as he lifted the girl into his arms and properly stood up, carrying her to the room they shared. She liked to sleep close to Geralt because, like him, she had nightmares. Companionship eased the pain.

He laid her down on one of the two beds in the room and tucked her in beneath the blankets. That fond feeling grew as Ciri, usually so strong and unshakable in her resolve, curled up and finally allowed herself to be at peace. He tucked a strand of light golden hair behind her ear and retreated to the other bed. He rid himself of his boots and socks then slipped under the thick wool blankets. A sigh escaped his lips, unbidden, as he sunk into the comfort of the bed.

Luxuries such as baths and beds were things he wouldn’t have even considered before a certain bard entered his life. Simple human things usually went unnoticed to Geralt, but Jaskier? Jaskier insisted on showing him the finer things in life, chattering on about how grand life could be when you decided to truly live it. He wondered what it would be like to truly live life, as Jaskier had said. What ifs plagued him. What if he had never made a wish with the djinn? What if he had gone to the coast with Jaskier? What if he had kept a lid on his damn temper and not blamed the innocent bard for every single thing that went wrong in his life?

And that’s how he laid, thoughts of bards and the possibilities of a world where he himself wasn’t such a cruel freak running about his head, until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

_ The bard stood before him, and the inn that had been bright with color was dull in comparison to the man. Geralt couldn’t speak as those blue eyes tore into him, stealing his words, his breath, and his reason. Jaskier took a step forward, his lute cradled in his arms, and his eyes full of… friendship and love. Geralt didn’t deserve either. _

_ Jaskier stood there, silent as the night, until the inn faded away, replaced by a mountaintop and framed by a gray sky. “See you around, Geralt,” the bard said, turning on his heel. _

_ Geralt opened his mouth, and a desperate cry for Jaskier to stay, to never leave him, died on his lips as the air swallowed the memory. Then, the bard turned back around, his eyes dull, cold, and lifeless. “Geralt,” he whispered and blood began to wet the front of his doublet in a quickly growing stain. _

_ Jaskier fell backward, hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The air had been punched out of Geralt’s lungs as the world slowed around them. “No, no, no,” he yelled, rushing to the bard’s side. He fell to his knees and shifted the other man into his lap, his hand rising to cup his cheek and when he did, the skin underneath his fingers melted into dust. Then, slowly and with building speed, the rest of Jaskier disintegrated into nothingness, the remains of his body caught in the wind. _

_ Geralt longed to cry, to weep for the loss of his bard, and yet… he couldn’t. His body wasn’t capable of shedding a tear, not even for the obnoxious, kind, sassy chatterbox that had clung to Geralt for over two decades. Had it really been two whole decades? Time flew, especially for mortals. _

_ Geralt slowly got to his feet and then, he heard it. The screams of townsfolk calling him a butcher, a monster, a freak, and no one came to his defense. No bard raised his lute and yelled back, drowning out the voices. _

_ Though Jaskier did speak and his words were carried by the very same wind that had swept him away, “Geralt.” _

_ Geralt turned, hand outstretched. _

_ “Geralt,” the voice shouted, this time with more urgency. _

_ He grasped at the wind. _

“Geralt!”

Geralt gasped, cold air filling his lungs as the world slipped back into place. Ciri shook his shoulder from her place in his arms. She must’ve crawled into bed with him at some point during the night. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft and gentle.

“I’m fine,” he managed. Having an audience for his nightmares unsettled him and anyone seeing his weakness made him want to toss up his dinner. Had he even had dinner the night before? He couldn’t remember.

Ciri’s eyes shone with a thinly-veiled concern, something he had only truly seen in… “Jaskier,” she said. “You kept saying his name in your sleep. That’s the bard that used to play at my birthday banquets, you know.”

Geralt lifted his head off the pillows in alarm. “He  _ what? _ ”

“He used to play the sweetest, most lovely songs. I adored him. How do you know him?” Ciri asked, looking up at him with those frosty blue eyes.

He realized he wasn’t going to get out of this with a simple ‘oh, just a friend from back when.’ He would need to fully explain and so, he did, “We met in a tavern in Posada...” After those first words, the rest came flowing out more easily. He wove a tale of their two decades together that he liked to think Jaskier would’ve been proud of, even if the words were halting and didn’t come easily. 

When he had finished, Ciri’s eyes danced with emotion. “After two decades, you just… pushed him away like that?” she whispered, not daring to break the soft calm that had fallen over the room. “Please tell me you went after him and apologized.” Geralt stayed silent, not meeting Ciri’s gaze. He didn’t want or need her judgment, but he knew he would get it anyway. 

Ciri’s little exhale sent daggers of guilt flowing through him. As if he needed another reminder of how badly he fucked up. She cleared her throat. “Geralt, as much as I love you, I think you need to talk about your actual  _ feelings _ more. You pushed away the man who had been in love with you and following you around for the better part of twenty years and-”

“He wasn’t in love with me!” Geralt sputtered, a tinge of growl seeping into his tone.

Ciri fixed him with a stern look that slowly melted into something almost… pitiful. He hated it. “Oh, Geralt, you must be joking. He tagged along on your adventures, sang your praises—quite literally—and somehow stuck around even though you  _ punched him in the stomach  _ and made jabs at him at every possible opportunity if your account is accurate. So, if that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”

Geralt stayed still, shocked into silence. Then, slowly, as if the stars were finally aligning, everything clicked into place. “Fuck. He was… and I…  _ Fuck. _ ”

Ciri nodded. “Exactly! We need to find him, Geralt.”

“No. We can’t. We have to keep you safe, and Yennefer wouldn’t know where we went. Anyway, we don’t know where Jaskier is. Even if we did, why would he hear me out?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Ciri glared, her brow furrowing. “It sounds like a bunch of excuses to me, and you know what? He would forgive you. I just know it.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek, thinking, then finally settled on a few words. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Ciri pouted a little bit but snuggled into his chest all the same. He held her close and ran soothing fingers through her hair until her breathing evened out and her body went lax and peaceful. Moments where he could just protect this girl, the one who had wriggled her way into his heart and who truly became his daughter, those moments were what made running from Nilfgaard worth it.

Geralt sighed, allowing himself to relax, and sunk into thoughts about Jaskier. When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of warm hands, soft smiles, garish clothes, and songs sung at far too high of a volume.

* * *

The slamming of a door broke his fitful sleep. Geralt sat straight up, Ciri groaning slightly as he jostled her. He leapt out of bed and grabbed his sword, which was leaning against the wall, then carefully crept over to Ciri and shook her awake. As her blue eyes fluttered open, he held a finger to his lips and pointed at the door.

She nodded and slowly slipped out of the bed. Her dagger and its sheath had been placed on the dresser the night before. Geralt kept his eyes on the door as she grabbed the dagger. He motioned for her to stay put and readied his sword as he heard approaching footsteps. The door stood five yards away from his place by the bed. He could easily rush forward and take down the attacker if need be.

The door swung open and an irritated feminine voice filled the room along with the scent of lilac and gooseberries. “Geralt!” Yennefer said, pausing in the doorway. Her eyes swept over his defensive form and the blade in his hands. “Glad to see you’re already prepared to fight. We have to go.”

Geralt frowned, tilting his head slightly. “Go where? Are we in danger?”

“No. Not yet, in any case,” she said, crossing over to him. Her long, gray dress complimented the vibrant purple of her eyes and the stark darkness of her hair. “The siege on the Nilfgaardian fortress near Novigrad is happening today. Right now, in fact.”

Bells started ringing in Geralt’s head, warning him that something terrible had happened. A deep unease settled into his bones. “Yen, what’s going on?”

Yennefer bit her lip and glanced at Ciri. “Our… informant within the base sent word that someone of import has been captured. They couldn’t provide much more for us to work with, but it spells dreadful news for the resistance. The raid has been moved up to today for that reason. I got here as soon as I could to tell you.”

That deep sense of unease worsened, curling in his gut and twisting in his heart. “Why do you need me? Ciri needs a guardian and you don’t usually call for me.”

Yennefer hesitated. “Listen, Geralt, I… We’re working with a third of the forces we would have had if we could’ve waited. We’re in dire times and we require a strong fighter. Ciri can stay here on her own. We…  _ I _ need your help.” 

Even though the romantic aspect of their relationship had died out long ago, Geralt still felt helpless to refuse the mage anything. “Lead the way.”

Yennefer smiled, small yet grateful. She turned on her heel, sparing Ciri one more glance, before heading out of the door. Geralt donned his armor, fastening the straps and sheathing his sword across his back, then followed her. Ciri trailed behind them. By the time he had made it outside, the air had already begun to whirl at Yennefer’s demand, and soon a portal formed.

Geralt took a single step towards the portal before Ciri launched into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and clung to him. He patted her head, his movements stiff and halting but still comforting. At least, he hoped they were comforting.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Ciri slowly raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “You’d better. I’ll never forgive you if you die. Oh, and don’t forget that we’re going to find Jaskier after this!” she said, drawing away from him and doing her best to put on a smile.

Geralt sighed, trying to act put out by her, but they both knew he loved her. “I would expect nothing less.” He gave her a small smile of his own and turned back to the portal. Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him, but he simply shrugged her off.

The two stepped through the portal and got whisked away to the battlefield.

* * *

His boots connected with mud and immediately, he sunk into the ground up to his ankle. A loud squelch rang out as Yennefer’s fine shoes also connected. “Ugh,” she groaned. They had stepped directly into a muddy area in the midst of a rainforest. His sensitive hearing picked up chatter from somewhere deeper into the forest. Yennefer began walking and beckoned for him to follow. Soon, they were traversing a maze of trees, vines, and roots intended to trip them up.

The pure ice-cold chill in the air was enough to make Geralt regret coming with her.

They finally reached a small camp of tents. Men were milling around, carrying odds and ends. Some were sharpening swords and taking practice swings with them. A balding man marched up to Geralt and Yennefer. He had a scraggly beard and a scar across his jaw. “Ah, you’re finally here. I take it this is the infamous White Wolf?”

Geralt internally winced at the name. Yennefer smiled in her polite fashion, that little hint of danger just beneath the surface. “Indeed it is, Marko.”

The man, Marko, stretched out a hand for Geralt to shake. “I’m glad you’re on board.”

Geralt regarded the outstretched hand for a moment and was about to shrug it off when Yennefer elbowed him. He shot her a look then grasped Marko’s hand and shook it. “Hmm.”

Marko, seeming to think nothing of it, began to lead them through the camp. A small, very unwelcome breeze swept through the trees. The biting air was enough to chill even him to the bone. Soon enough, the air would be cold enough to cause hypothermia for the entire army. How delightful. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but still.

Marko led them in between scores of tents, talking to the odd soldier as he went. His voice carried tiredness that you only truly found in those who had fought tooth and nail to survive and now carried those memories like a weight on their shoulders. He glanced back at Geralt. “As Lady Yennefer no doubt told you, this raid has turned into primarily a rescue mission. We’ll need you on the front lines, taking down the Nilfgaardian knights.”

Yennefer placed a gentle hand on his bicep. “You won’t have to take them on alone.”

Geralt shot her a look and shook her hand off. “I wasn’t worried.”

Eventually, they reached an area with a small path cut in between the trees and vines. Marko gestured towards the path. “You’ll have to hurry. The first group of our men has already gone out.”

Before Marko could say another word, Geralt headed off down the path with Yennefer trailing behind him. His keen senses picked up on the hiss and slither of a snake somewhere in the forest and the pitiful cry of a hare being struck down by a predator. These were sounds he had become accustomed to in his many years of life.

They walked in silence for many minutes, stalking through the trees with purpose. Then, with enough strength to curdle the blood of any living thing, a scream rang out. It ripped through the trees along with the clash of metal on metal and the racket of battle cries. Hooves beat down on the earth somewhere ahead of them. He broke out into a sprint, hand flying to his sword instinctively.

Yennefer was hot on his heels as they tore through the forest. Finally,  _ finally,  _ the trees broke into a grassy plain, stretching to a mountain where a black stone fortress sat. On that grassy plain, no more than twenty yards away, the blood of fallen men stained the ground. It seeped into the earth and soaked it.

Niflgaardian warriors with their blackened, wavy armor clashed with resistance soldiers. Men fell to the ground in heaps of blood and anguished cries. The heavy stench of sulfur, body odor, and that unmistakable sour tang of fear filled the air. The sulfur clung to many of the resistance warriors and he knew the meaning well: righteous anger.

The sun, slowly making its way higher into the sky, began to chase away the cold of the late morning as it became early afternoon. Geralt pulled his sword and charged into the thick of battle, ignoring Yennefer’s calls behind him.

A Nilfgaardian knight ran at him like a bull seeing red and swung his heavy blade. He was fast, Geralt would give him that, but not quite fast enough. He easily sidestepped the attack made by the warrior and drove his blade into the man’s back, who collapsed like a felled tree. Moments in the heat of battle were the ones he was good at. A battle - no matter how bloody - was like a dance. Keep light on your feet and move with precision or else you’ll fall.

One by one, he struck down warriors who dared approach him. Their screams and the stench of spoiled milk filled the air as they crumpled, blood staining the earth. He didn’t know how long it took for the battle to end, but by the time the last Nilfgaardian man had fallen, the sun was high in the sky and beating down on them with remarkable force. A breeze, now feeling pleasant after the sweat and exertion of battle, swept across the field.

Blood had managed to work its way into his boots at some point, and he was certain his socks would be stained. More to the point, they had been soaked through. He grunted and ignored the minor inconvenience. As the resistance warriors began their march to the looming, ominous fortress on the mountainside, he followed. They made their way across the grassy plain and to a thicket of trees around the base of the mountain.

They crept through, low-hanging vines being chopped off swiftly. He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. Strange, all things considered. He didn’t usually sweat, but he had a hunch the sense of unease lingering in his bones had something to do with it. This feeling of utter  _ wrongness  _ clung to him, and he couldn’t shake it. Not for a lack of trying, though.

They came across a small gate hidden in the trees that led to the grounds beside the fortress. It had been built partially into the mountain but still had outside entrances. He glanced around at the men who were making their way to the gate. Somehow, he had lost Yennefer in the scuffle. No worry settled inside him, though. He was certain she had found safety.

One of the men managed to get the gate open and cheered in success. The rest of them filed through the new opening and marched forwards, coming face to face with a new bout of guards.

* * *

Geralt wasn’t sure how long it took them to finally infiltrate fully, he just knew it had happened. At that moment, he stood in the midst of a long hallway, the bodies of fallen warriors left in his wake. He continued down the dark path that was only lit by windows off to his left. As he reached the end of the hallway, he saw a series of doors. Not just simple doors either—these were made of heavy metals and designed to be impenetrable.

He turned to one of the doors and gave it a push. It slowly swung open; strange, all things considered, but he brushed it off.

The sight he saw next would haunt him forever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! ^-^
> 
> The long-awaited chapter is finally here. Thank you for all of your support and lovely comments. I really do appreciate everything you all say! 
> 
> I've decided there will be three chapters. The last one is going to be significantly shorter than these first two, so look out for that in the next week or two.
> 
> CW: Graphic descriptions of injuries sustained due to torture. Read at your own risk, my dear. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

It took a moment for him to register what was happening. The scent of dandelions, buttercups, meadows, and hot summer days all drenched in the metallic smell of blood filled his nose. Truly, it didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Hanging in the middle of the room, bound by chains and illuminated by a dripping grate above his head, was Jaskier. He had a black eye, multiple deep cuts across his face, a bloody nose, and spades of marks all over his chest and stomach. Every single inch of the other man was coated in a thick layer of oozing blood.

His head was barely being held up and in clear danger of lolling off to the side. Those cornflower blue eyes lazily slid up to meet Geralt’s own. And yet… yet there was nothing. His eyes held the fog of a broken man.

The worst part of it all, however, was the monster of a man dragging a knife down Jaskier’s already bloodied chest.

Red clouded Geralt’s vision and his chest constricted, squeezing the life out of his heart. Bitter cold overwhelmed him. The world had frozen and all he could see was someone hurting the bard— _ his _ bard—and so, he charged, sword drawn. He chopped off the man’s—no, not a man’s, a torturer and a monster’s—head with one, swift movement. The man barely turned in time to see the sword that ended his life. 

A soft cry escaped Jaskier’s lips as the decapitated head hit the floor with a wet thud.

Geralt scrambled to kneel beside the disgusting form of the dead interrogator. He grabbed his keys and made quick work of freeing Jaskier from his bindings. The man all but fell into his arms. “Jaskier,” Geralt said, clinging to the weak form of his bard.

“Jaskier, can you stand?” he asked.

Not a single word escaped the other man’s lips. Geralt’s heart hammered in his chest and his palms began to sweat. He hadn’t felt these reactions since… since he didn’t even remember when. However, he didn’t have time to ruminate. Jaskier needed him.

He wrapped one of Jaskier’s arms around his shoulders and scooped him into his arms like one would a bride. The carry allowed for him to hold the bard close to his chest. Jaskier whimpered a tiny little pained sound that broke Geralt’s cold heart—a heart he didn’t even know existed.

He carried the small man out of the room and nearly ran into a panicked Yennefer. Her violet eyes were wide as she took in the form in Geralt’s arms. “Shit,” she breathed.

Shit was an understatement.

* * *

Geralt clung to Jaskier, holding the bard tight against his chest. He couldn’t bear to think about  _ why  _ he had been strung up in a cell. That would almost certainly lead him down a dark path of self-hatred and rage. Yennefer hurriedly created a portal and they stepped through together.

The gloomy, depressing base melted away into a green clearing in the middle of a lush forest where a cabin sat. A breeze that once would’ve felt reassuring and temperate now froze him to the bone. Guilt, pain, anger, sadness, and a million other feelings whirled around inside of him. To a man—mutant—who hadn’t felt in years, these intense waves were nearly crippling.

Jaskier made another soft, pained noise that sent icy daggers through Geralt’s heart. He followed Yennefer as she guided him into the wooden cabin. As soon as they were through the doorway, he heard footsteps padding closer. 

Ciri’s face appeared from around the corner off to their left. “Geralt?” she asked, her voice concerned and questioning. Her eyes slipped down and caught sight of the unconscious man swaddled in the witcher’s arms. She didn’t speak again.

Geralt rushed Jaskier into the room he shared with Ciri and laid the man down on his own bed. He gently pulled the blankets away from underneath his bard and took a step back. The sheets would no doubt be soaked with blood, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. With the new distance, he could truly examine the extent of Jaskier’s wounds, and extensive was certainly the right word.

His chest had a series of long, deep cuts that hadn’t properly healed, and a legion of fresh ones that still oozed blood. Bruises mottled almost every inch of skin that wasn’t cut. Some areas of Jaskier’s chest had red, angry welts as if made by a whip, and the areas that were free of those things? They had burn marks. Marks that were white, red, and yellow. Marks that were puffy and marks that were deep and had destroyed layers of skin. Marks that glistened and made bile rise in Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier’s face revealed a worse truth. 

He had gone unshaven for what looked like  _ months.  _ A messy, uneven beard ran across his jaw. It struck terror into Geralt’s heart that the bard had been suffering for long enough that it allowed him to grow that. The series of bruises and cuts on the bard’s face showed proof of the abuse he had gone through. No, scratch that. His  _ entire body  _ held proof of his torture.

Geralt suddenly wished he had given the monster who had done this a slow and painful death. He wished he hadn’t left it at a simple decapitation. 

Yennefer’s soft footsteps rang out as she neared him. She passed him and hurried to Jaskier’s bedside. Her gaze swept down the injured man’s body, examining in a cold, detached way. “He needs immediate medical attention. I-”

“Then stop talking and help him,” he gritted out.

Yennefer glared at him. “As I was  _ saying,  _ I will need to stay with him in order to heal his wounds. However, Geralt, there is a small issue we need to speak about and I-”

“Help the bard first,” he said, cutting her off for the second time.

“Geralt, this is urgent and I don’t appreciate you-”

“Please, Yen.  _ Please. _ ”

Shock danced across the sorceress’s face at this completely out of character moment of vulnerability. She sighed and turned her gaze back to Jaskier. “We  _ will _ talk after I heal him,” she said, leaving no room for objection.

That suited Geralt just fine.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, not being able to bear the sight of his bard looking so… weak and destroyed. The deeper, darker truth was that he couldn’t look at Jaskier without feeling a crushing, nearly overwhelming sense of guilt. After all, he caused this. He  _ knew  _ he had. 

His anger, his temper, and his fucking  _ cruelty _ allowed for Jaskier to be bound and beaten. The abuse the man suffered would  _ never  _ have happened if Geralt had just kept control of his damned emotions. Or perhaps… Perhaps his control was the problem. If he had just let go and spoken about what plagued him, could he have stopped this? 

He closed the door to the room behind him and headed out of the cabin. He rid himself of his gloves, letting them fall to the floor by the door, as his feet carried him out into the cold, cloudy day. The breeze whipped at his armored form and his hair, whipping the strands this way and that. He stopped by the stump they’d been using just yesterday as a surface to chop logs upon.  _ How could that have been yesterday? _ He wondered. It must’ve been at least a few eons ago, right?

He sat down in the grass, running a hand over the rough bark of the stump. He traced the deep lines and his fingers came away sticky with old sap. Thoughts of every time he fucked up with Jaskier or yelled at him for no reason circulated through his head.

_ “It’s like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling.” _

_ “Fuck off, bard.” _

_ “I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.” _

_ “You’re on your own from here on.” _

Geralt curled his hand into a fist and punched the stump beside him, sending splinters of wood everywhere. Hot pain spread out from his knuckles and burned through his veins. He withdrew his hand and noticed the little pieces of wood that had embedded themselves into the skin around his knuckles. Blood slipped down the back of his hand and dripped onto the grass.

It didn’t matter. His horrid words mattered though. 

_ “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you  _ off my hands!” _

Lies. The whole lot of them. He had thoughtlessly cast away the only human who had never smelled of fear in his presence. Even when he had given the bard plenty of reason to. Why had Jaskier stuck around? Why didn’t he leave so much earlier? Any normal human would have after twenty-two years of cruelty. Then again, Jaskier wasn’t exactly prone to normality, was he?

The whole thing sent his mind running in circles, always thinking and yet never coming up with a solution. When Jaskier woke up, he would ask him. He would ask  _ why  _ he hadn’t simply up and left after their first meeting. Geralt knew he needed material for his songs, but it had to be more than that. Or was he simply romanticizing it? Making it into a larger deal than it should have been? Obviously, that could be possible, but-

“Geralt?” Ciri asked, her voice barely rising above the rush of the wind.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t feel a  _ need  _ to. His eyes stayed fixed on a tree off in the distance as the breeze swept through his hair. A small form plopped down next to him. “Was that man Jaskier?” she asked.

Wordlessly, he nodded. A little noise, a little whimper, bubbled up from Ciri’s throat. “He looked  _ horrid.  _ What happened to him?”

“Nilfgaard,” Geralt gritted out. 

“They never stop, do they?” Ciri shook her head and he glanced over. Her blue eyes shone with emotion as her ashy hair whipped around in the wind. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, her eyes meeting his. “I wish they would just- Geralt, what happened to your hand?”

Geralt tried to hide his hand away but Ciri grasped for it and got her hands around his wrist. Another soft little noise escaped her lips. “You’re bleeding,” she said, examining his hand with wide eyes.

“It’ll heal soon.”

“That’s not the point. How…” Her voice trailed off as she spotted the stump with its bark hanging off and the roots that had been ripped up by the ferocity of his strike. “Oh.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said in response. He pulled his hand away from her as the skin began to slowly knit together.

A yell rang out from inside the cabin, loud enough to be heard over the rush of the wind. Immediately, the pair, both witcher and princess, got to their feet and bolted inside the house. Geralt pulled his blade, an unknown—at least to him—feeling creeping up his throat, causing his usually slow heartbeat to quicken and his hands to slick just a little.

Shouts came from Jaskier’s room, and a million scenarios rushed through his head. Thoughts of a mage portalling in and killing both Yen and Jaskier froze him to the bone. He threw the door open, sword at the ready.

Yennefer had her hands up in a placating gesture and was close to the door he had just thrown open. Jaskier, however, had gotten to his feet and stood in between the two beds on the opposite side of the room. His eyes darted from Yen to Geralt, sweeping over both of them wildly and desperately. “Who the  _ fuck  _ are you? Where am I?”

“Fuck,” Yennefer muttered.

Geralt paused, everything in him coming to a screeching halt. The bard must’ve had a concussion, right? “Jaskier,” he grunted. “Lie back down.”

“How do you know my name? Is this- oh, fuck, of course, it is. Great! Right. Just wonderful. This form of torture won’t  _ work.  _ I don’t know what the  _ fuck  _ is going on, but I assume that sorceress is in my head again. Can we just get back to the  _ normal  _ excruciating torture?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said with more force. “Get back in bed.”

“I don’t usually listen to figments of my imagination,” Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely at Geralt and Yennefer.

“This is real, you fool. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He sheathed his blade and took a cautious step forward with the air of a man trying not to spook an animal. “Get back in bed,” he said again, desperately trying to soften his voice like Jaskier always used to when speaking to children or to him after a particularly bad hunt.

“Why should I do  _ anything  _ you say, pray tell?” Jaskier put on a cocky grin, but it held all the fear and skittish tendencies you would find in a prey animal. His eyes still darted around the room, looking for an escape. He wavered a little on his feet, not balancing properly.

“We saved you from fucking Nilfgaard. Get your arse back in bed.” Geralt took another step closer.

“Stay back,” Jaskier said, curling his hands into fists. “Not another step closer.” His words came out soft and ridden with anguish. Haunted blue eyes met Geralt’s own and his heart—one that should’ve been destroyed long ago—splintered in his chest.

He took another step, hand outstretched to gently ease Jaskier back into bed, then… Nails connected with his face, tearing skin on his cheek and drawing blood. Jaskier’s haunted eyes turned wild as he scratched at Geralt as a vicious animal would. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier and let him fight and struggle, doing his best to calm him down as he thrashed.

Another pair of hands entered the chaos and wrenched the two apart. “Geralt,” Yennefer hissed as she pulled him back by his arm.

As soon as he was freed, Jaskier bolted away from Geralt and over the bed he had just been lying in. He now stood across from the mage and the witcher, eyes flicking to the door where Ciri was now standing. Her face paled, her eyes widened, and the scent of fear wafted off her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled and pushed the door closed.

“Damn it.” Jaskier paused for a moment, letting his gaze rest on Yen. Geralt could see the cogs turning in his brain. “Wait, wait. What did you call him?” he asked her. “Geralt? As in Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt frowned, unease settling in his bones. It appeared that Jaskier remembered some things but not all. Was that common for concussions?

Yennefer crossed her arms and didn’t respond. She turned to Geralt. “We need to talk as soon as we can get the bard unconscious.”

Geralt ignored her and kept his eyes focused squarely on Jaskier. “Did you hit your head?”

Jaskier regarded him for a moment then snorted. “What the  _ fuck  _ do you mean, did I hit my head? For Melitele’s sake, I was hanged in a cell. If I had the option to hit my blasted head, I would’ve! I swear it would’ve been better than seeing  _ his  _ ugly puss as he got off on slicing me up.” Insane laughter spilled out of Jaskier, bringing tears to his eyes.

Geralt had never once felt afraid of the bard. In fact, fear wasn’t something he had felt in a very, very long time. Now, however, fear rooted him to the ground and stole away his reason.

Yennefer, however, had no such issue. She stalked across the room, around the bed, and up to Jaskier who continued his cackling. Her fingers landed on his forehead and she chanted a few words under her breath, and the bard went limp.

Jaskier fell to the ground and Yen simply stepped back, out of the way of his descending body. “Get the bardling into bed,” she ordered him.

He sent her a glare as he went to Jaskier’s side and gently scooped him up. His injuries hadn’t improved. Aside from the lack of blood on his chest, he looked no better than he had when Geralt found him.

With as much care as possible, he set the bard down in bed. He ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, combing it away from his face. The bard’s days in captivity had given it length and it had gone unwashed for who knows how long. A pang ran through his chest. How long had Jaskier been kept there?

How long had he suffered abuse for Geralt’s sake?

Bile rose in Geralt’s throat at the thought. He never wanted the bard to get hurt when he sent him away. His intentions… well, they didn’t matter now, did they? He ran his thumb over the only part of Jaskier’s face that wasn’t bruised or cut. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.

Yennefer cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Can we speak now?”

Geralt shot her a glare over his shoulder. “Is it possible to heal his concussion?”

“Geralt.”

“If you wish to speak, then speak, Yen.”

Yennefer clenched her jaw in annoyance. “He doesn’t have a concussion. His mind has been altered by magic. By  _ my  _ magic.”

The world slowed to a stop as the proverbial rug got yanked out from underneath his feet, pulling him into a freefall he had no hope of stopping. “What did you do?” he growled at Yennefer, turning fully to face her.

“I gave him an escape.”

“ _ Explain. _ ”

Yennefer sighed. “I gave him an enchanted elixir that I poured into a pill. I told him to take it if Nilfgaard ever got too close to him. Apparently, he followed my directions. The pill was intended to target memories of… well, of you and me. Any mention of you has been scrubbed from his mind permanently. Any time he was even  _ thinking  _ of you… It’s all gone.”

Geralt’s heart shattered. “What the  _ fuck _ were you thinking?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

“I was trying to protect us and you know what? I don’t have to justify my actions to you,” she said, tilting her chin up in defiance.

“You don’t get to do that shit. You don’t get to manipulate the world and the people around you then give excuses.”

“I’m not giving  _ excuses  _ and I didn’t manipulate anything.”

“You decided that you would take away Jaskier’s memories. You never mentioned it to me and he could have died. Fuck, Yennefer. What else do you call that?”

“I call it being reasonable and making a decision to save lives. You’re apparently capable of  _ neither. _ Now, I want to finish healing the bard. Will you let me near him or will you growl at me?”

“Still deciding.”

Yennefer gave him an exasperated look until he finally stepped aside and pulled up a chair. He set it by the bed, sinking down into it and clasping his hands in his lap. Jaskier’s face held a pained expression. His breath came out in short little puffs of air and little whimpers escaped his lips.

Geralt closed his eyes tight and took Jaskier’s hand, weaving their fingers together. Every single groan and pant that came from Jaskier made his heart  _ ache.  _ His protective instincts went feral and begged him to help the little bard. The worst part was the rush of conflicting emotions. He had never felt this much all at once. Witchers were supposed to be emotionless monsters, so why did one insignificant human make him so  _ weak? _

Yennefer stood by the bed, her hands glowed with an ethereal light as she cupped Jaskier’s face. Her magic began to knit together the cuts, ease the pain, and heal the bruises. Soon, his face could almost be normal besides the excess length of his hair and the near beard on his jaw.

The pained noises and pants lessened just a little as Yennefer worked. Jaskier’s brow eventually soothed and lost the wrinkled lines of frowning. Everything about the bard eased some when the magic poured through him. Geralt squeezed his hand, not hard enough to hurt him, but just enough to remind Geralt himself that his bard was strong and would survive this.

His mind still whirled though. Jaskier’s memories had been destroyed. Every moment of his life that Geralt had touched was just… gone. Blown away by a harsh wind. If he hadn’t pushed Jaskier away on that mountain, would any of this have happened? 

Was his cruelty the reason for all of this?

Thinking of the answers to those questions made him sick to the stomach. Jaskier hadn’t deserved this. He deserved hot baths every night, a real bed to sleep on instead of the cold, hard ground, all those courtly fineries he had given up, and above all, he deserved to not have his life endangered by a witcher. 

And yet… yet no matter what, Geralt would always hurt him. Even after pushing him away to save him from a life of misery, a life of always looking over his shoulder and never truly resting, Geralt still managed to ruin the bard. His touch  _ always  _ ruined him.

Monsters did that though. They ruined beautiful things with harsh touches. Hell, he’d punched Jaskier in the gut the first time they met. He’d yelled at him to shut up. He’d told him they needed to part ways and still, the fool stayed. He always stayed.

Except…

_ “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take  _ you  _ off my hands!” _

That was the final straw, he supposed. The last touch Jaskier could take before he shattered to pieces and got swept up by the wind. It made sense that he would be sick of following a monster.

Seconds slowly bled into minutes and those minutes bled into hours. Then, Yennefer pulled her hands away from Jaskier’s chest, sweat beading on her forehead. “That’s all I can do for today,” she said, her face pale.

Geralt nodded and said nothing.

“You're still not willing to even give me a grunt? I did just spend hours healing your bard.”

“Hmm,” he replied.

Yennefer sighed and turned, walking out of the room with some difficulty, and Geralt was left alone with an unconscious Jaskier. He examined the bard’s form, checking to see how much Yennefer had been able to do. The cuts and bruises on his face were mostly healed, having not been as deep as the ones on his chest. The cuts, bruises, burns, and welts on his torso also seemed to be doing a little better. The burns didn’t glow with a sickly light and the welts looked less red and angry. However, the injuries still held and likely wouldn’t fade for a while, even with Yen’s ministrations.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbled. “This is… this is my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled. Should’ve been kinder to you on the mountain. Should’ve been kinder to you before the mountain too. You’re a fool to follow a shitstain like me around for so long, you know that?”

No reply. 

To be fair, he wasn’t expecting one, and yet… he still longed to hear the bard chatter endlessly and sing nonsensical verses just to elicit a reaction. The obnoxious, womanizing, kind, thoughtful little bard did love to get a reaction. Especially out of Geralt. His eyes shone with mirth every time he managed to weasel a little chuckle or half-smile out of him. Why did he take so much  _ joy  _ in it? 

Reactions like those usually came easily for Jaskier. People giggled, smiled, and blushed whenever faced with him—well, except for the cuckolds. Still, it made no sense to him  _ why  _ the bard took so much pleasure in making  _ him _ smile. Maybe he thought it a welcome challenge?

Even so, Geralt’s heart ached to hear the bard make increasingly terrible jokes in hopes of getting a laugh. The sound of Jaskier’s voice had become calming over the years—a balm to soothe the aches of killing monsters. He longed for Jaskier’s light to come back and chase away the darkness that existed every single day in his life. Yen had only increased his darkness, adding her own to the mix and manipulating him in whatever way she wanted. Jaskier, however, brought levity and joy. How had he never thought of this before?

How had he ignored the signs? How… how had he missed it?

Jaskier’s hand twitched in Geralt’s own and a soft noise escaped Jaskier’s lips as his eyes fluttered open. A moment of silence where neither man moved passed between them. Then, Jaskier pulled his hand out of Geralt’s like he’d been burned.

Geralt bit back a wince and simply swallowed. “You’re awake,” he said.

“I am,” Jaskier replied, his blue eyes scanning Geralt, looking for danger. 

More silence that Geralt found he couldn’t stand.

“How do you feel?” His voice came out gritty and uneven. Nearly unpleasant, but then again, inquiring about the feelings of humans—or anyone—didn’t come easily to him. 

“Better. I, uh, don’t feel like I’m going to throw up so I’ll take it as a good sign. My head feels clearer too. None of that fog or anything and I can think straight. Gods, my head was  _ pounding  _ earlier.”

Geralt’s chest lost some of its heaviness at those words and his shoulders relaxed just a little, losing some tension. “That’s good.”

“Do you, um, can you provide me with some information? I’m not talking about weaving tales of extravagance or indulgence, simply just the basics. Are you really Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt nodded, a lump forming in his throat.

“Ah. Ah, right, I see. Why do those brutes who held me want to get ahold of you? I mean, obviously, I’ve heard of your so-called lion cub. Though, it seems to me you must’ve pissed those shitheads off beyond that. They were really quite desperate for your immediate capture,” Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely in the air.

Geralt couldn’t help the little half-chuckle that pushed past the lump of guilt and escaped his lips. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows flew up his face, giving him a very shocked, very open, very  _ Jaskier, _ expression. “Oh, so you  _ can  _ laugh? See, now, you look like you’ve never laughed a day in your life.”

Geralt’s lips quirked fondly, raising at the corners. “Not trying to kill me now, huh?”

“No, no. It may sound strange, but something in my gut tells me to trust you. So, I will. I’ve been told by everyone to always go with my gut. Though, I do suppose none of those people ever imagined I would be strung up and tortured then saved by a strange, mysterious man, but it’ll all work out in the end, I’m sure.”

“Hmm.” A little something that he doesn’t care to examine blossoms in his chest, spreading warmth throughout his body.

“Not a talkative one, I see.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in agreement.

“Care to explain why you seem to know me?”

Geralt hesitated, not quite sure what to say. He could lie, but… Jaskier had been through so much.

Did he deserve that? 

And so, he told him. He told the bard how Yen had given him a pill and how his memories had been altered. Jaskier lapped it up, eyes slowly widening with each new detail. When he was finally done, the bard sat back, mouth hanging open. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Geralt confirmed.

“You… I… So, I  _ voluntarily  _ got rid of my memories of you? Of that adorable little girl out there and of that sorceress? Of twenty-two years' worth of experiences? Shit.”

“Not all twenty-two years. Just things with me in them, which shouldn’t be much.”

Jaskier hesitated, his eyes flying down to his lap and he nervously wrung his hands. A frown creased Geralt’s forehead and a knot formed in his stomach. “How much do you remember?”

“I… Snippets, really. A moment here and there. Mostly mornings. A couple of performances in the earlier years. Times when I was scared out of my wits, but… That’s all. I… I don’t… Please, Geralt, why am I missing so much? You weren’t in my life that much if your account is accurate.”

Geralt’s mind whirled, searching for an answer. Why  _ was  _ Jaskier missing so much? It didn’t make a lick of sense and then…

_ “Any time he was even  _ thinking _ of you… It’s all gone.” _

“Shit,” he said. “I… I… You must have been thinking about me or Yen.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Ah. Ah, right. I see. It all makes sense now. So, um, how long have we been in love? Now, I never thought I’d fall for a witcher of all things, but I’m only the eighteen-year-old me. Forty-year-old me found adventure and magic and clung to it. I’m fascinated. All the tales he must’ve sung!”

Geralt’s mind came to a screeching halt. “We’re not in love,” he grunted, his words harsh and forced.

“Are… are we not? I thought that’s why I was thinking of you so damned much and why my heart and gut screamed to trust you. It must be why I would even  _ think  _ to take a mysterious drug. Seems to be the only reasonable explanation. Unless I’m misreading things.”

Geralt wanted to yell that it wasn’t like that. That he and Jaskier had never… never been that way. And yet… he couldn’t. Some part of him ached to have this connection with the bard. Even the younger version of him. He knew that if they ever got the real Jaskier back—the older, more well-traveled one—that the bard wouldn’t want him around. He would cast him out just like Geralt had all those months ago on that mountain.

If he could have this… 

“Hmm,” he grunted in response.

“So, tell me, witcher. Tell me about our journeys. Weave a tale of daring and wonder and explain to me why we fell in love. You see, I’ve always thought of myself as adventure’s bride, never finding the right woman—or man—due to my ache to be on the road, seeing the world. Never in my life has there truly been room for another in that great love story. I want to know everything.”

Geralt, unable to refuse the beautiful songbird before him, began to speak. He told Jaskier of their encounter with the elves and their time in Cintra. He told Jaskier of the djinn and the other such hunts the bard had documented in his songs. His gravelly voice described their moments in as much vivid detail as he could. The bard deserved that much.

When he was done, tears shone in Jaskier’s eyes. “My gods. Truly a story for the ages, huh?”

“Hmm.”

“Monosyllabic. I like it. Oh, how I wish I could play. I would love to write a ballad about all of this.”

A deep, disturbing feeling settled in Geralt’s gut. “Why can’t you play, Jaskier?” he asked.

Jaskier paused, swallowing thickly. “I, uh… Well, my interrogators broke my fingers. They never truly healed, but every time they showed signs of decent health, they would break them again. I doubt I’ll ever be able to play the lute like I once did,” he said, holding his hands to his chest and taking deep, slow breaths. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, trying to keep his voice soft and gentle. “I’m-”

“No, no. I won’t hear of it. Don’t apologize for this. The other me made a decision and I won’t allow you to blame yourself for it.” Jaskier’s hand, which must’ve ached with pain, landed on his cheek, cupping it tenderly. “I wish I remembered everything. Music usually helps me focus. I… I wish I could play. A thousand ballads could be composed about your eyes, you know. Wolfish yet kind. Hardened yet soft. How could anyone look at you and see a monster? I feel pity for those fools.” His words were not but musings, ramblings really, and yet… they warmed Geralt’s heart and, at the same time, sent swords of guilt through it.

“I  _ am  _ a monster, Jaskier. Trust me, if you knew…”

“I know everything I need to. You save those who would sooner spit on your boots than provide you with any modicum of kindness. You slaughter creatures who would prey on villages. You’re something special, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier said, a soft smile playing at his lips. “I just know it.”

Geralt had nothing to say to that; his words and breath stolen away by a poetic bard. How typical. Still, though, his heart leaped with joy he had no right to feel. “I’ll get your memories back,” he promised.

“Try your best, but don’t beat yourself up if it doesn’t work. You’ve already looked like a wounded puppy dog enough since I’ve gotten to… Well, since  _ this _ me has met you. I do believe thanks are in order though. So, thank you.”

“Don’t. Don’t thank me.”  _ You’ll leave the second you remember what I said to you  _ went unsaid.

“Oh, dear witcher, I’m afraid I must.” A yawn escaped Jaskier’s lips. “Haven’t the faintest why I’m still tired.”

“You were tortured. You have every right to be tired.”

“Mm. I suppose that’s true.”

“Stay awake for a little longer. I still have to bandage your wounds,” Geralt said, standing. He crossed the room and searched through the bag on the floor next to the dresser, where they kept medical supplies. Easily, he found the soft, white bandages and went back to Jaskier’s side.

The bandaging took an excruciating amount of time. Jaskier’s wounds were so extensive that he had to decide which ones required covering more than others so they wouldn’t run out of bandages. The little pained hisses that the bard made through the entire process made Geralt’s heart ache, as it had been likely to do in recent times. Thank the gods the cleaning had already been done by Yen. He didn’t know if his newfound emotions could handle that.

Every time Jaskier winced, Geralt gently rubbed circles into his side, arm, or shoulder with his thumb. The bard gave him a grateful smile every time. As soon as they were done, Jaskier sighed in relief. “Gods, I’m glad that’s over.”

“Hmm,” he hummed in agreement. “Get some sleep, Jaskier.”

As he began to walk away, a hand caught his wrist. “No, wait,” Jaskier said. He turned back to face the bard, a frown creasing his features. Jaskier cleared his throat. “I, uh… Could you stay? Just until I fall asleep. I mean, you don’t  _ have  _ to, but I… I would like that. If it’s all right with you,” he stammered.

“I’ll stay." Geralt bit his lip. "Though, you do seem to be placing a lot of trust in me, bard. Why is that? I could have fed you lies in the stories I told.”

“No. I know you’re telling the truth, dear witcher. See, you can fabricate stories and lie about extravagant adventures. The only thing you can’t fake is that look in your eyes. Right now, I could break you with a single word.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest but Jaskier held up a finger. “Don’t lie. We both know that you can feel things, even if you say you can’t. I may not be the  _ real  _ me. Not the one you know, at the very least. However, I do know what a man swept up in the throes of passion and love looks like, and you fit the bill.”

Geralt blinked. “How do I look like that?” Confusion swept through him. What kind of look would that even have?

“You just… do. There’s a certain softness to your eyes. It’s hard to pick up on, but it’s there. I’m no fool. Ah, well, perhaps I am about some things, but not about this.”

Geralt considered this for a moment. Witchers weren’t supposed to have feelings or connections to humans, and yet… here he was. Here  _ they  _ were. Just like Jaskier had said all those years ago.

_ “I want nothing.” _

_ “Well, who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you.” _

_ “I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.” _

_ “And yet… here we are.” _

Oh, Geralt knew so little back then. So many things about the bard went unnoticed. Well, he had figured it out now, hadn’t he? He went back to the chair and sat himself down on it. Jaskier rolled his eyes and reached out a hand. He grabbed hold of Geralt’s arm and pulled him without much actual strength due to his injuries, but the point got across. “You want me to…?”

“Of course, I do. Better than hanging around in a chair, yeah?”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do?”

“Shut up and get in bed, witcher.”

Jaskier scooted to the side to make room for him. Geralt snorted softly and with all the caution he could muster, clambered onto the bed. He made it a point to be gentle and not to jostle Jaskier. He settled on his side facing the bard so as not to fall straight off the bed, seeing as the bed was, decidedly, not big enough for two fully-grown men.

Silence fell between the two as darkness honed in on the sky. He stared at Jaskier, examining his face and his overly long hair and beard. Jaskier stared back, blue eyes boring into him and exposing the vulnerable pieces of him he longed to keep hidden. Those eyes shone with an unabashed spritely youth. The older version of his bard had tempered that energy and waited to use it in the moments he needed it.

Somehow, it refreshed him to see that pure boldness back in his bard’s eyes.  _ No, not mine. He wouldn’t want that. Not now. _

A hand caressed his cheek. “You’re thinking too hard, dear heart. I can actually hear your damned thoughts. Rest now. You’re perfectly all right.”

For a man with only eighteen-some-odd years of memories, he came across wise. Wiser than he had any right to be.

“You’re not afraid?”

“Of you? No. I… I’m terrified of the men who did all of…  _ this  _ to me.” Jaskier gestured vaguely at himself with his other hand. “Not you though. Your touch is gentle, not cruel. Promise me one thing though.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me I won’t go back. Promise me that it’s over. Truly over.”

“It’s over, Jaskier. You’re safe.”

Jaskier’s eyes shone with tears as he burrowed into Geralt’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Geralt held him close, running his fingers through the bard’s hair. He deserved warmth and safety. Geralt would give it to him. Soon enough, soft snores filled the room and his heart filled with a fuzzy contentedness.

No one would ever hurt the bard again. Not if he had anything to say about it.

In a matter of minutes, sleep had taken the witcher as well.

* * *

He awoke to soft hair tickling his nose and a deep warmth near his chest. His eyes fluttered open to see a brown mop of hair and the shirtless man it belonged to clinging to him. Warmth and pure joy spread throughout his body. Nothing could be this perfect.

Unfortunately, good things never last. The peace broke when the door of their room swung open and Yennefer swept in. “Geralt, I have an idea,” she said, with no preamble.

Jaskier woke with a jolt, his breath coming in deep gasps. “Geralt,” he whimpered. 

Geralt held him closer, whispering soothing words only they could hear. “I’m here. You’re safe.” 

He glanced up at Yennefer, whose iridescent eyes examined the pair carefully. “Speak, Yen,” he said.

Yennefer gave him a malicious look but complied. “I need to go into his mind and sift through the wreckage of his memories. If I do that, we may have a chance of restoring something.”

“How sure is this?” Geralt asked as Jaskier burrowed further into his chest.

“I… I’m not sure. I designed the elixir to make it near impossible for any sorcerer, including myself, to reverse it.”

“Fuck,” he mumbled. 

“I’m aware. At the time, it seemed logical.” She sighed. “You’ll need to let go of the bardling now. I need to put him to sleep. Having someone inside your head while you’re awake, it can drive the mind to break further.”

He nodded, gently extricating himself from Jaskier’s arms. The bard grasped at him, trying to pull him back. He could only sigh and brush the hair away from the poor man’s forehead as he stood. “I’m sorry.”

“Please, Geralt. Please,” Jaskier said, desperation bleeding into his tone. The air smelled of dying buttercups and dandelions, a scorched meadow, and the last day of summer before fall took hold. Fear permeated and stole away Jaskier’s beautiful natural scent.

Yennefer approached the bed, some sort of bottle in hand. “This will ease your mind and allow us to walk within it without hurting you,” she said to Jaskier, popping open the cork. The clear liquid stunk of magic and some bitter smell that made Geralt wrinkle his nose in distaste.

As she brought the bottle closer to Jaskier, he withdrew. The smell of fear spiked. “Yennefer,” Geralt said. “Let me.”

“Let you what? Give him the potion?”

“Let me do this. All of it.”

Yennefer’s eyebrows shot up her face. “You want to go inside the bardling’s head and repair his memories? Do you have the faintest idea of  _ how? _ ” 

“No, I don’t,” Geralt said, glancing down at Jaskier’s face, frightened and pale, “but you could teach me.”

Yennefer clenched her jaw. “You’re an utter fool.”

“So I’ve been told.” His resolve stood strong, even under Yennefer’s disapproving gaze. 

She shook her head and rubbed her forehead. “Fine then. I’ll send you into the bard’s head. Once you get there, you’ll have to wander around. Some memories will be broken while others may be more whole. Your job is to knit together what you can and try to find even the tiniest notion of you, me, or Ciri in that head of his. We can build off of even the smallest memory. Do you understand?”

He nodded. This entire mess had been caused by him, so he had to fix it. One way or another, he would get Jaskier’s memories back to him. He had to or he didn’t know how he would live with himself.

Jaskier grabbed hold of his hand, squeezing it as much as he could with broken fingers. “Please be careful.”

Geralt looked down at the bard and forced a small quirk of his lips. “Always am.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly as Geralt took the bottle from Yen. He helped his bard sit up and pressed the bottle to his lips. Jaskier drank every last drop of the strange elixir. Geralt could hear his heart beating fast in his chest even though his face retained a calm expression.

His bard was so damned strong. Pride swelled in Geralt’s chest. He would fix things. A real apology for the real Jaskier had to be spoken.

Jaskier’s eyes slipped closed and his breathing evened out, his entire body going lax and peaceful. Geralt let out a soft breath and turned his gaze to Yennefer. “What next?”

Yennefer arranged herself next to Geralt and placed a hand on Jaskier’s forehead then the other on Geralt’s forehead. She chanted something under her breath and dust began to kick up from the floor. A wind borne of magic swept through the room, circling around them and dancing with ethereal light. A woozy, fuzzy feeling seeped into Geralt’s head, then his entire body. Then, the wind swallowed him up, whipping him around and transporting him to a different realm.

The world as he knew it ceased to exist. Then, his boots hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](https://katekarnage7.tumblr.com/) if you want to bug me about updating. The third chapter will be out in the next 1-2 weeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* An update? Practically unheard of! In all seriousness, I'm sorry this one took so long to get out. My words have been rather uncooperative recently and I had to make myself properly sit down and focus to get it done.
> 
> I would like to thank all of you for the immense support this story has gotten and I would also like to thank the anon on Tumblr that sent me an ask inquiring about this little fanfic. It really does warm my heart. So, in honor of the first day of pride, I present to you: the last chapter of The Pill!

* * *

The area around him slowly shifted into focus. He stood on a small field of dandelions and buttercups that floated in a void filled with other islands. A tinge of blue tinted the area, clinging to it like a fog. _A memory._ All around him, he spotted countless other memories suspended in the blackened void. Some of these pieces held the interiors of taverns or the large expanse of a plain and some held gravel or dirt paths with grass growing by the sides. The most shocking thing, however, was the vast number and variety of _colors._ A veritable rainbow clung to the sky, shifting and changing in between each island of memory.

He crept forward, moving away from the field with the dandelions and buttercups, and to a bridge on the very end of that piece of land. The sturdy wooden bridge didn’t so much as shake as he walked across it. Unwisely, he cast a glance downwards and was met with more of the same blackened sky and tiny islands. Trying to hang onto his wavering sanity, he kept his gaze on the next island and could only admire the shifting colors. 

This one held sharper clarity than the last. A small child with light brunette hair sat on a plush bed far too big for him. Tears slipped down the small boy’s face as he sat there, silent and so very alone, trying to read a book. His tears stained the pages, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

A chill ran down Geralt’s spine and a horrid, knotted feeling sat in his stomach. He moved on, leaving the small boy to read. The next island had a warm, joyous spark to it and was lit in a gorgeous yellow light. The same boy—a little older this time—sat with his back to a tree, plucking at a lute. His brunette hair had darkened and now fell around his face in long strands as he sat there, looking at his lute like it would answer the mysteries of the universe. He looked to be about ten or eleven years of age and yet, still, this air of wisdom no child should have hung around him.

The tune rang out, pure and clear in the air, filling the memory with joyous music—music you would want to hear for the rest of your life. He hummed along, the high tune bouncing over a range of chords. When he messed up a hand placement or played a chord wrong, he simply smiled and kept playing. Whilst Geralt knew nothing of music, he knew what joy looked like.

He continued on, even though his heart longed to stay with the boy, longed to sit next to him and just listen while the world passed them by. He couldn’t stop though. This promise to Jaskier was one he wouldn’t—couldn’t—break. 

As soon as he stepped onto the next island, he froze. A deep cold settled into his bones as a gray sky descended on the memory. The same room from earlier came into focus. The large, plush bed with the soft-looking blankets still stood in the middle of the room. He could only see half of it, like he was viewing a play and this was the set. The young boy stood in the middle of the room, desperately clutching his lute to his chest as a black-haired woman managed to yank it from his hands. Her hands wrapped around the neck of the lute as her blue eyes glowed with cold anger.

“Please, Mother,” the boy cried. “It’s just a lute! It does no harm. Please.”

The woman clenched her jaw and crossed over to the roaring fireplace, lute in hand. She fixed her gaze onto the boy. “You haven’t time for music, Julian. Imagine what your father would say if he saw you with this filthy instrument instead of working on things of _real_ importance.” Then, without another word, she tossed the lute into the flames. 

The boy gasped, rushing forward but his mother caught his arm. “Let it burn. I’m only helping you, dear,” she said, her voice saccharine but unapologetic.

Tears slipped down the boy’s face as he slowly backed away and went to his shelf. He grabbed a book and sat on the bed, sniffling.

His mother patted his head in approval. “Good boy,” she said before taking her leave.

A rush of hot aggression poured through Geralt’s veins. Who would take away a child’s joy like that? Especially such a kind, warm child like Jaskier. 

This life wasn’t one he would’ve imagined for the bard. Even though he’d mentioned he was a viscount, Geralt never really thought about the implications of that.

He hated himself for it.

He slowly tore his eyes away from the sight of his bard crying. _The_ bard. Not his. He didn’t deserve him; especially not now. With haste, Geralt continued his travels through Jaskier’s memories. All of these moments were a part of Jaskier he had never seen. The part of him that shaped his personality and his views. He ached with the knowledge that he _could_ have known all of this if he had just asked. He could’ve known about Jaskier’s torrid affair with music and how his parents didn’t approve. He could’ve known how the bard was always alone as a child and yet… yet he never asked. 

What did that say about him?

Every memory he saw filled him with sick guilt that knotted his stomach. The violation of Jaskier’s mind and privacy made him _ache,_ but he had no other choice. He did his best to ignore every personal detail that he could in the memories. He decided he would ask Jaskier to tell him about those moments instead.

As he walked, he spotted something. No, many _broken_ somethings. A memory that had millions of tiny little floating details unconnected to each other. A _shattered_ memory. He ran toward it, his feet carrying him through Jaskier’s teenage years and all the way up to his eighteenth birthday. He paused when he spotted it: the tavern in Posada. It was the last whole island before everything dissolved into broken details. 

Curiosity began to mix with that unease in his stomach, causing a flutter. He crept into the tavern and stumbled, his body being thrown into the memory full force. Jaskier was sitting at a table, nearly finished ale in hand. He took a swig then placed the tankard down and grabbed his lute. Geralt watched from afar as the bard took to singing, his voice filling the air as wonderfully as it had over twenty years ago.

Jaskier’s gaze flicked around as he sang, moving his hips a little to the rhythm. The effect could only be called mesmerizing. A yell rang out, low and agitated. The bard backed away as bread, amongst other things, flew at his face. “I’m glad I could just bring you all together like this!” the younger version of Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely as he put his lute away.

He knelt down, picking up what he could of the likely stale bread, and then… his gaze fell on _something_ in the corner. Geralt’s heart leaped into his throat. Jaskier straightened up and moved forward, making a beeline for the corner, but… the memory fell away. The ground was broken and the corner of the tavern had been cut open. If the bard kept going, he would fall into nothingness.

Geralt rushed forward, his hand reaching for the back of the man’s doublet. When it should’ve made contact, his hand passed straight through Jaskier’s chest and he overbalanced. His foot caught the edge of the corner and before he could even cry out, he fell into the open void.

* * *

The ground rushed up to meet him and he hit it with a thud. “Fuck,” he mumbled as pain shot through his knees. He raised his head and was met with the outside of a gorgeous, stately building shining under a muted sun. Slowly, with nerves and adrenaline rushing through his veins, he got to his feet. Before his eyes, a scene appeared. A young boy with brown hair and blue eyes ran past him, being guided by a young girl with dark eyes and darker hair. The boy looked rugged, his hair growing far past the length Geralt would’ve expected and his common clothing stained with dirt. His hair was streaked with mud.

His eyes, however, carried the light of a person who was finally _free._ Geralt’s breath caught. That freedom. How long had it been since he’d seen it? How long since the mountain? It felt like millennia, but… no. A year, maybe two.

His heart ached in his chest as he followed the boyish version of his bard into the building. _Oxenfurt,_ he realized with a start as he set foot inside the grand entrance hall. His eyes scanned the large staircase before him and the many halls that led to a variety of rooms. Different versions of Jaskier echoed around the halls; screams of joy and laughter permeated the air. His bard sat on the stairs with that girl, singing softly and playing his lute to a tune of their own design.

_“Without you.”_

_“I’m stronger.”_

_“You told me I was younger.”_

_“I’m no longer.”_

_“That I was filled with wonder. How wrong you were.”_

The two grinned like the uninhibited children they were. Geralt smiled, an ache and a warmth coinciding in his heart. He continued on, through the various memories stained with different colors. A pull in his gut sent him walking towards an arched quartz doorway. He stepped through and into a massive library drenched in gray light. In a poofy armchair, his hair as foolish and wild as the day they met, his eyes as blue as ever, sat Jaskier. _His_ Jaskier.

His eyes carried a small hint of old age. Really, his… _the_ bard aged well. His fingers strummed the lute and yet, no sound came out. His lips moved noiselessly along to the tune. Eventually, came a discordant noise, like the scraping and wailing of a kikimora before you ended its life. The moment carried a distinct _wrongness._ Who played the lute in a library?

He stepped forward, but a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled around, his hand flying to his back, grasping for a non-existent blade. Then, he caught sight of two cornflower blue eyes, a soft smile, and brunette hair. For the second time since he stepped into that building, his breath caught. “Jaskier?” he asked, his voice a whisper next to the discordant notes of the lute behind him.

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier replied, his smile as easy, bright, and beautiful as the sun.

“Who are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Jaskier. Well, Jaskier’s subconscious, in any case,” he said in a breezy tone. He turned away from Geralt and walked over to the bookshelf nearest to him and picked one out.

“You know who I am?” Geralt asked.

“Of course. It’s not easy to forget such a big presence. And, _whoo,_ big you are.” Jaskier’s subconscious looked up and gave him a wink.

Geralt didn’t respond and looked the other—well, not quite _man_ —up and down. He noticed the red doublet that had the idea of scales designed upon it. That flash of red haunted him. 

_“That’s not fair.”_

No time to dwell on that now. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think, big man? I’m here to talk with you. Well, I suppose _talk_ is a bit of an exaggeration. I’m here to weave together sentences and you’re here to listen,” Jaskier’s subconscious said, thumbing through the pages of his book.

“Then speak,” Geralt replied, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon the strange visage of Jaskier before him.

Jaskier’s subconscious tsked. “Demanding, demanding. In any case, I’m here because you are. For the past six months, we’ve had mages in and out of here. They’ve been searching for me. Well, not _me,_ per se. More for, you know, what I have in my possession.”

“Spit it out.” Geralt stepped closer to the subconscious, brow furrowed, and heart beating fast. A hopeful spark lit and fluttered in his stomach. 

The subconscious chuckled. “Do you see all of these books?” he asked, holding up the book he had in his hands. Geralt looked around, his gaze flicking over the empty bookshelves. Only two, the two closest to them, were nearly full. They held around a hundred books each. Jaskier’s subconscious slid the book he held back onto the nearest shelf. “They’re memories. Each one holds a detailed summary of every single month of Jaskier’s life moment to moment. You could learn everything about how a person thinks, works, moves, breathes, and exists from these books. That’s why they must be protected. When the odd magic-user comes into this head and roots through to find these books, well, let’s just say that I make sure they don’t find anything.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Oh, dear heart. You still don’t get it. He’s safe now. We trust you to retrieve his memories.”

“We?” Geralt asked. The absurdity of the entire situation nearly overwhelmed him. 

“The body and brain, love. Now, come close. Don’t be shy; I don’t bite. Well, not usually.” Jaskier’s subconscious winked and beckoned him closer. Those blue eyes glowed inhumanly in the gloomy darkness of the library. That dissonant strumming of Jaskier’s lute continued on and on.

The subconscious took Geralt’s hand in his own and pressed it to his chest. A blinding blue light filled the room and the subconscious gasped. The bitter, tangy scent of desperation permeated Geralt’s senses. Then, all at once, the light faded and the smell disappeared. The subconscious panted, his breaths coming in deep gulps. “Ooh. That’s not very pleasant,” he mumbled. In his hands sat a small, thin book.

The subconscious pressed it into Geralt’s hands. The brown leather was scratched and damaged, showing signs of abuse. “What is it?” he asked, holding it as gently as he could. His large, brutish hands could easily destroy it. That’s what they were meant for, right? Destruction?

“These few memories are what I could salvage from the ruins.”

“How…” Geralt trailed off and swallowed, taking a deep breath before continuing, “How did you manage to save anything?” he asked as he examined the book. This tiny piece of leather and paper held the scraps of over half of Jaskier’s life. _Don’t ruin this. Don’t you dare._

“Ah, yes, well, Yennefer’s spell was powerful. It should have destroyed everything, but… well, we all know how resilient love is. Even with dear old Jaskier, who falls in love every hour.”

Geralt’s breath disappeared from his lungs. He opened his mouth, but no words came forward, and instead, a breathless sound escaped. Immediately, he bottled every emotion up and locked them away. His emotions shouldn’t be seen nor heard and yet… he ached with the realization that Jaskier, the obnoxious, foolish, kind, well-intentioned, womanizing idiot had fallen in love with a _monster._ Why did _that_ have to be the love that lasted? Why couldn’t the bard have just fallen for a royal woman or a fellow bard and lived happily?

Love with a monster never ended well.

The fool did indeed fall in love every hour and he fell out of love just as fast. His affections should have died. _Damned fool._

He breathed deeply. “I see.”

“Your sorceress should be able to restore his memories with that starting point. Oh, and Geralt? You’d best keep him safe. I won’t ask twice,” Jaskier’s subconscious said, an almost sad smile playing at his lips. “Good luck.”

Then, like dust in the wind, the subconscious disappeared. The dissonant lute-playing got louder and Geralt glanced over at the younger version of the bard. His eyes held dark circles and his fingers deftly danced along the strings, forming different chords and new sounds.

Geralt let out a breath as his mind raced with all the new information. One particular revelation kept echoing around in his head, tearing into him and making butterflies swarm in his gut. A sickness crept up his throat as he slowly opened the small book.

A myriad of colors burst into existence, drowning out the old, gloomy library. Then, slowly, a scene formed around him; one he very much recognized. A campfire crackled before him and an inky sky filled with thousands of dots of light hung above him. Two men, one small and brunette, the other large and white-haired, were lying on the ground, curled on their sides and trying to get some rest. A bitterly cold wind rustled through the trees as a pang ripped through his chest.

His eyes landed on the hunched form of his bard. The blanket he had was far too thin and provided very little coverage from the harsh ice of the air.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Speak.”

He remembered that. That night had been just after a particularly difficult hunt. He had been told there would only be one drowner, maybe two, when in actuality, there were too many to count. A whole horde of the creatures. When he had thought it would barely be dangerous, he allowed Jaskier to come along. Then, when the horde attacked, Geralt didn’t see a way out for either of them. Especially not a soft human like his bard.

He thought they would both die before they could live out whatever horseshit destiny had planned for them. In a way, he supposed, that would’ve been a mercy. To take his last stand beside his friend—even though it had taken him so long to even grant the bard that title—would have been the best death he could have hoped for. 

Jaskier’s voice, weak and shaky, broke his trance, “Melitele’s tits, it is fucking cold out here.” His teeth audibly chattered from where he laid, arms wrapped around himself tightly. 

The younger version of Geralt sat straight up, jaw clenched. The irritation practically wafted off him. Geralt wanted to chuckle. He remembered exactly how he’d felt. That little bolt of anger at how underprepared Jaskier was—really, who packed only a thin blanket in the late fall?—drowned out by a wave of concern and worry over the little human he’d grown too fond of.

He could only watch as that version of himself grabbed his blanket, stood, and crossed over to the bard. He knelt beside Jaskier and tossed it on top of the small bundle of freezing limbs. “Next time, pack smarter,” the younger version of Geralt said, standing to go back to his patch of ground.

A hand shot up from the little bundle and grabbed a hold of the witcher’s pant leg. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier said and Geralt could remember with perfect clarity how those blue eyes had shone in the dying light of the campfire. A part of him ached to move closer, to catch sight of those eyes once more. He didn’t.

“Hmm,” his younger self grunted.

“I’ll bring a thicker blanket next time. I truly didn’t mean to inconvenience you, but it’s just so fucking frigid out here. I really don’t know how you stand it, Geralt,” Jaskier rambled. “Are you sure you don’t need it? Witchers must get cold. Or do they? Is Kaer Morhen harsh enough for you to get that used to the cold? Or would it be your… witcher-y blood keeping you warm?”

The memory version of Geralt rolled his eyes. That little fond feeling was no doubt growing in his chest, just as it had for the true Geralt all that time ago. “You talk too much, bard. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days.”

Jaskier sat up a little, an over the top huff escaping him. A little smile still danced on his lips. Seemingly, the bard was never too cold to abandon his typical dramatics. “I wouldn’t worry about that! I’ve got a big strong witcher to protect me,” he said, tugging on the young witcher’s pant leg again.

“I won’t always be around to save your arse when a cuckold corners you.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt. You’d never let your very best friend die. That would be rather bad form, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Jaskier paused, a little crease forming between his brows. Oh, how Geralt ached to smooth it away. Not that his touch would be welcome. People generally didn’t like it when monsters came too close. “What?”

“Ask you.”

A moment of silence passed between the young pair before Jaskier burst out laughing. “And yet, here we are.”

“Hmm.” The similarity to their first banquet all of those years ago was not lost on him. They truly did have a recurring dynamic of sorts. A push and pull that played out the same, even after years, and still somehow left Geralt feeling warm, no matter how long it had been.

The moment broke when Jaskier shivered again, his fingers dropping away from the young witcher’s pant leg and diving back beneath the blankets. Geralt’s younger self looked down at the pitiful bard. His love of luxuries and weak constitution made camping out in rough conditions horrid for Jaskier and still, he did it. All for the love of music, he supposed.

A sigh escaped the young witcher’s lips and he dropped to the ground. “Jaskier,” he murmured, gently tapping on the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier turned to face him, his teeth still chattering just slightly. “Come here.”

Apprehension had sat like a crushing rock in Geralt’s chest back then. He remembered that horrible feeling of _what if he pushes me away? What if he recoils at my touch?_

After all, Geralt’s hands were made to break things. They were made to wield weapons and rip apart monsters, not gently cradle someone or even warm them up. When Jaskier didn’t immediately respond, he closed himself off again. He watched as the younger version of himself moved to stand before the bard grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “No,” Jaskier said. “Don’t you dare go anywhere, my dear witcher. You’re like a raging fire with that body heat, so you’d better stay right here, huh?” 

Geralt remembered the warmth that spread in his gut and stood there, transfixed as the younger version of himself curled closer to Jaskier. His arms hesitantly wrapped around the small, fragile human. Jaskier made a soft sound and buried his face in Geralt’s chest, practically octopusing himself around the heat source.

Oh, how he had _melted._ His touch wasn’t harsh enough to scare the bard away. In fact, he wanted _more_ of it. What human wanted more contact with a witcher? His hands were rough, unpracticed in the art of comfort and yet… Jaskier pulled his arms closer. The bard would always be a complete mystery to him. Geralt watched as the two descended into a peaceful sleep and the memory drifted away.

He wondered why he could just drift into these memories without seeing them from Jaskier’s perspective or even his own. He supposed it was as if the world was created by the memory and he could just… walk through it as one would the normal world. It hurt his head to think about the reality of what he was doing.

Slowly, the landscape of Jaskier’s mind shifted back into place. Yet instead of being met with the strange, discordant library, he stood on a grassy patch of land, similar to the one he had originally come in on. He spotted more bridges to more memories.

A part of him wished to explore more, to know more about the bard. The realization that he had never so much as asked why Jaskier became a bard instead of embracing his viscount title was a stark one. How could he have _never_ asked? Having now seen the type of relationship Jaskier had with his parents though… well, everything clicked into place.

“Geralt!” a voice called, sounding muffled as if being yelled over a great distance. He cast a look around, a little startled.

Slowly, the voice became clearer, and the solid ground beneath him disappeared. He barely had a second to register it, his heart fluttering in his chest as he began to fall through a void of darkness. Then, with a jolt that jarred him and sent him near crashing to the floor, he was put back in his normal body. His legs ached and carried the stiffness of having been standing for too long without moving.

Heavy breaths rang out from his right. Yennefer sat in a chair beside the bed, her hand on his wrist and beads of sweat rolling down her temple. Geralt opened his mouth to ask if she was okay, but before he could even get a word out, Yen began to speak, “Did you get what we need?”

Geralt nodded mutely. 

“Details, Geralt. I need details.”

He took a deep, calming breath and tried to organize his thoughts. “Jaskier’s subconscious gave me a book. Told me it was a seed we could work with to restore his memories.”

Yennefer nodded. “Good. What did you do with it?”

“I opened it and it sent me into a memory,” he said, his gaze straying to Jaskier’s sleeping form. His face was so peaceful and _beautiful_ in sleep. Relaxation looked good on the bard, he decided.

Yen stood with some effort and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get his memories back for him. You did well, Geralt.”

“What do we do now?” Geralt asked, throwing Yen a grateful look. The shred of kindness she had given him soothed the burning pit of worry and stress in his stomach.

“It’ll be a slow process. We’ll have to go into his mind and dive deeper, extracting more memories. Now that we have a seed, we can build off of it and piece the memories back together. The good news is that we do have a chance of putting your bard’s memory back together with little issue,” Yennefer said, also glancing down at Jaskier’s sleeping form. “I imagine the real task will be repairing the damage to his emotional and mental state after this whole ordeal.”

A frown creased Geralt’s brow and a nagging, itching feeling of guilt rooted in the pit of his stomach. “Hmm.”

Yennefer’s hand slid down to Geralt’s bicep, her touch gentle. “You worry too much,” she said, then stepped away, letting her hand fall. With a half-covered up yawn, she swept out of the room and Geralt was left to stare down at his unconscious bard.

And so the days went on. Jaskier would wake to be fed and given water. He was always out of it though, never quite as present as Geralt wished. When the bard awoke, he smelled of the pungent, herbal mixture he was given to keep him asleep for their endeavors into his mind. Sometimes, he would look at Geralt with something akin to recognition in his eyes and Geralt’s heart leaped every time, hoping this would be the time he remembered their adventures. Yet… no.

Still, their strange pseudo-relationship continued. He would lie with Jaskier and help him fall asleep, cradling him as gently as he could, knowing that his days of being able to touch and hold the bard were numbered. A sense of dread settled in his stomach at the thought of being so distant from Jaskier again. He wanted to stay by his side and while that thought should’ve sent him running the other direction, should’ve sent frigid fear through his veins, instead it only filled him with a fuzzy warmth.

Oh, was he in deep.

As the days continued, he delved into Jaskier’s mind further and further. They quickly realized that Yennefer couldn’t enter the bard’s mind. Whenever she tried, she was met with harsh resistance from the man in question. She said something about him rejecting her presence. Whatever that meant. Unfortunately, that led to Geralt being the only one able to piece together the shattered pieces of Jaskier’s memories.

It was tedious work, but he lost himself in the feeling of it. He allowed the memories to wash over him, bringing with them warmth and comfort. He did his best not to pry into anything he didn’t have to, trying to grant the bard at least _that_ shred of privacy.

Seeing every moment of theirs like it was a play and watching as he told Jaskier to fuck off and to leave him alone… Well, it didn’t quite help the ache in his chest or the itching, fluttering, throbbing sensation in his gut.

To top it all off, whenever Jaskier stirred into the world of the waking, he got frightened at the drop of a hat. If a door ever slammed or a voice raised, he winced. Whenever Yennefer touched him while fixing his injuries, he shook violently. Geralt’s heart ached for the bard. His fear was understandable though. After being through so much trauma for months, how could one not experience lasting effects?

Before he knew it, the first snow of the winter had come and passed. Storms plagued the little cabin, drenching everything in a soft white, and still Jaskier stayed the same. The winter passed into early spring and updates on Nilfgaard’s progress came all too frequently. Apparently, the resistance was flagging without Yen or Geralt there, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. Not when Jaskier needed him. 

Not going to Kaer Morhen in the winter was the strangest part. He always stayed in the mountains for the first snow and the harsh weather, yet there he was, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere tending to his ragtag family. Well, if you could call it a family.

One comatose bard, one guilt-driven witcher, one sorceress whose strength dwindled with each passing day, and a magical lost princess. What a mismatched group they were.

Yen’s magic _was_ dwindling though, however much she tried to refute it. The amount of strength required to both heal Jaskier and to maintain a magical bond that kept Geralt in the bard’s mind on a daily basis would have most mages in a shallow grave after but a week.

And so the spring continued. With each passing day, Geralt could feel them getting closer to a breakthrough. He couldn’t see the full picture yet, but he would. He knew he would.

At the beginning of the second week of spring, Geralt slowly woke. His nose was buried in soft fabric as his eyes slowly fluttered open. The air warmed him without being stifling. He could’ve sat there all day if not for the pounding ache in his neck. With a groan, he properly sat up.

For the nth time, he had fallen asleep in a chair by Jaskier’s bedside. If he had stayed up late talking to the unconscious man, well, that was no one’s business but his. His gaze drifted to the man in question. His eyes still laid closed, his body still and his breathing steady. The cuts and bruises on his face had long since healed, making him seem painfully normal. As if normal could _ever_ describe their situation.

He rolled his neck, hearing the little cracks and doing his best to rid himself of stiffness. Jaskier would wake soon; he always did in the mornings. Yennefer’s spell would wear off and Geralt would feed the bard, then let him succumb once more to Yen’s magic. 

He got to his feet, rubbing his neck and stretching his limbs. The room around him felt far too quiet as he turned away from the bed, crossing over to the door. He paused before leaving. The absence of Jaskier’s melodic voice ripped into his chest and left an empty void there. He should’ve been used to it by now, considering how long he’d had to suffer through months of near silence. Even though Yen and Ciri spoke to him, he didn’t feel that calming warmth that used to spread through his body and leave him tingling. The sensation of living in a thrum of soft, kind noise had become his normal. The hypocrisy of missing something that he himself had thrown away made his hands curl into fists.

Then, a soft noise came from behind him. A stirring groan. “Geralt?” Jaskier murmured, his normally boyish voice rough and slurred from sleep.

“Rest, bard. I’ll be back with food,” he replied without turning around.

“What? No, I… Geralt, where in Melitele’s name _are_ we?” Jaskier asked, seeming more awake.

Geralt froze, his feet rooted to the ground, uncomprehending. He whirled around to find Jaskier’s blue eyes already fixed on him. Geralt scanned the bard’s face, those eyes lit with a fiery recognition. The man in question began to speak again, “Gods, why I am so fucking stiff? I feel like I’ve gone eighty rounds with a rather vivacious young woman. Or a monster. Probably a monster. Shit, my head is _pounding._ What happened?”

Slowly, Geralt picked his jaw up off the floor and swallowed. “What do you remember?”

A little crease appeared on his brow. “Not much. It’s all sort of fuzzy and twisty,” Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely. “I remember walking in the streets, playing in rather harsh taverns, and booze. _So_ much booze. Though, most of it was the cheap swill that rundown bars have to offer but still.” The bard’s gaze flicked down as he wrung his hands in his lap. “I remember the mountain and… _Fuck._ Nilfgaard. They found me, Geralt. I swear I did my best to stay hidden, but the bastards wouldn’t let me escape, and I-”

A laugh, so sudden and inexplicable that it even surprised the man himself, bubbled up and escaped Geralt’s mouth. It came out harsh and humorless, but the joy of hearing Jaskier—the _true_ Jaskier—rant and ramble on outweighed any other emotion. A sudden urge to wrap the bard in his arms struck him. Fuck, if that didn’t scare the shit out of him.

“Oh, my misery is funny now, is it? Then again, I suppose it’s always been a little funny to you. Fucking witchers and their fucking… Why the _fuck_ am I here, Geralt?” Jaskier spat, his jaw clenching and his eyes shining with a million unintelligible emotions.

Geralt’s mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth and his heart splintered. “It’s not. Funny, I mean.”

Jaskier huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Right. Please, Geralt. Just answer me.”

“Nilfgaard captured you. You were questioned until Yen and I saved you. You’ve been here recovering ever since.”

“Questioned, as in…?” Jaskier trailed off, his eyes locking onto Geralt’s own. They held the silence stare for a few moments, neither saying a word, until Geralt finally nodded. “Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. Hold on, where’s my lute? Can I even still play? Melitele’s tits, I’d better be able to.” Jaskier scrambled to pull his hands out from under the blankets. He inspected them for a few moments and bent them, hissing in pain. “ _Fuck._ Oh, gods.”

“Yen said your fingers should heal eventually. As for your lute, we never found it,” Geralt said, desperately trying to keep the roughness out of his voice. He needed to be gentle and kind. He needed to be all the things witchers never should be and were never _designed_ to be.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered again, his voice ridden with grief. The moment descended into silence once more. This time, it lasted much longer.

With every passing second, his bard’s face reflected a new emotion. None that Geralt could decipher clearly, except for their vague scent in the air. Something heavy and sour, not dissimilar to fear, but closer to grief and something else sulfuric, like anger. Slowly, Jaskier’s features relaxed, realization pulling his mouth into a little ‘o’ shape. “I remember now. It’s still foggy and frankly, a right fucking mess, but I… I understand. How long have I been here, Geralt? How long—how long have I lost?” he whispered, his voice breaking half-way through.

Geralt turned his gaze to the floor, not daring to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “They held you for around six months. You’ve been here for three.”

Silence. Unbearable, overwhelming, _crushing_ silence filled the room.

Then, a soft, broken sound tore out of Jaskier’s throat. “Nine months. _Nine months._ No wonder I’m so fucking stiff,” he said, laughing mirthlessly. Geralt chanced a glance at the bard. His eyes shone with unshed tears as another laugh without humor rang out. The sound was harsh. Far too harsh for the kind, gentle little bard he had come to know.

Jaskier shifted in bed, turning to throw his legs over the side. “Well, I should be off then. Places to go, people to see, and all that. It’s spring, yes? Oxenfurt is positively _lovely_ in the springtime,” he said.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“I wonder if Laina is still fluttering around down there. It would be a joy to see her again, assuming she managed to rid herself of that horrid fling of hers.” Jaskier pushed himself off the bed, standing on shaky legs.

“ _Jaskier._ ”

The bard began making his way over to the door and Geralt rushed to his feet. “Markus, I believe. Why are all the terrible ones named a variation of Mark? Marx, Markus. Must be a cursed name!”

“ _Jaskier!”_ Geralt caught Jaskier’s wrist. “You aren’t going anywhere. You’re still weak.”

Jaskier whirled around, his blue eyes glinting with fiery rage. The display was nearly laughable, considering how the bard winced at the sudden movement. _Nearly_ though. Jaskier ripped his wrist out of Geralt’s grip. “Oh, _now_ you care? Just a little while ago it was _Jaskier, fuck off_ and _Jaskier, you’ve ruined my whole life._ Now it’s _oh, you have to stay?_ Of all the idiotic, inane, positively _ridiculous_ things I’ve heard in my forty years of life, this must take the everloving cake!” 

“I didn’t mean it,” Geralt said, his voice pitched low, just barely above a whisper. “I was angry.”

Jaskier shook his head and backed away, moving closer to the door and putting considerable space between them. “You’re wrong, my dear witcher. Even if you think you didn’t mean it, some part of you did. I know you’ve had a hard life. One that would humble anyone to hear. The things you must’ve seen in all your years and the hardships you’ve endured are no small feat. I, however, fear I cannot keep up. We’ve danced this dance before, Geralt. It always leads to the same answer. I would follow you forever if you let me and we both know it’s true. Since we clearly don’t share the same feelings, do me this small mercy and let me _leave,_ ” he said, pulling his arms close to his thin frame. He no longer looked like the eighteen-year-old boy in that tavern in Posada. He now carried the air of a man well-traveled, even though his body had thinned considerably since their first meeting. Time had traced his face, showing his life in smile lines and little wrinkles. 

“I can’t.” Geralt stepped forward, his hand reaching out into the empty space between them.

The bard froze, his gaze focusing in on that hand. “Why not?” he whispered.

“Because I…” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, looking up at the human before him. The human who had come into his life like a tornado, tearing through what he knew and leaving him shaken. The human who had refused to let Geralt be ridiculed and, instead, stepped in when others threw obscenities at him. How could he let Jaskier go again?

His hand still floated in the air between them.

“Why not, Geralt? Why can’t I just leave? We can go our separate ways. Your reputation should be all but saved and polished up by now. You don’t need me,” Jaskier said, twisting the fabric of his cream undershirt between his fingers.

“Damn it, Jaskier. That’s not _fucking_ true,” Geralt hissed, taking a step forward.

“Well, then, tell me what is! Honestly, Geralt, I don’t know what to think! I remember now that you were incredibly kind when I lost my memories and you… you took care of me, but you pushed me away before that. It’s fucking nonsensical!” Jaskier stepped into Geralt’s space, placing their faces mere inches away.

“You want the truth? Fine. The truth is that I do need you, because you’re fucking important to me!”

The pair fell silent. The only noise to be heard was their strained, heavy breathing. Then, slowly, like the rolling of thunder, Jaskier leaned in and captured Geralt’s lips. A surprised sound worked its way out of Geralt and the bard swallowed it up, pressing closer. After a moment, Geralt finally managed to get with the program. He wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him impossibly closer. Jaskier melted into the embrace and flung his arms around the witcher’s neck.

They stayed like that for what felt like eons before they slowly broke away. The pair panted, still breathing each other’s air. He rested his forehead against Jaskier’s and tried to remember how to speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed, his voice soft.

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier whispered, “I cannot stay mad at you. No matter how hard I try.” 

“You know, I… I…”

“I know, beloved. You needn’t say it.” Jaskier caressed Geralt’s cheek, his touch feather-light and gentle as could be. His hand continued further and tucked a stray lock of white hair behind his witcher’s ear. Geralt’s heart sped up to a nearly human rate.

Hesitantly, for fear of Jaskier’s reaction, he moved to close the space once more. This time, their kiss was deeper, filled with all the longing and love they’d hidden for years. Jaskier tangled his fingers in Geralt’s hair and Geralt tightened the arm around his bard’s waist. Electricity sparked between the two as a soft, needy sound left Jaskier’s lips.

A hot, tingly feeling washed over Geralt and he longed to pull the bard closer, to show him what they’d both been missing. His skin burned under his clothing and he relished in the feeling of Jaskier’s soft lips on his. Those talented hands explored Geralt’s back and shoulders, dancing over every inch of him the bard could reach.

Geralt’s own hands slipped lower and lower, running down Jaskier’s lower back. Another little sound erupted from Jaskier and, oh, the things Geralt wanted to do to his magnificent bard. 

Then, the door swung open. “Geralt?”

He and Jaskier broke apart, their heads swinging nearly in unison to see the intruder. Yennefer stood there, her eyes a touch wider than normal. “Oh. I see he remembers you then?”

Geralt, still breathless, nodded.

“Finish sticking your tongues down each other’s throats then. Ciri wants to come in. She’s been worried sick.” And with that, Yen turned on her heel and hurried out the door. 

Once she was gone, Jaskier laughed and let his forehead fall to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. “I see Yennefer’s still as lovely and eloquent as always,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by Geralt’s shirt.

“Hmm.” Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s neck and rubbed it with his thumb affectionately. “Ciri will be happy to see you.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose my… shell-shocked, memory-less self must’ve scared her. Poor girl.” Jaskier paused for a moment. “It must’ve scared you too, dear heart,” he said, rubbing Geralt’s back slowly.

“Only thing I was scared of was losing you,” Geralt responded, his voice soft and confessional. 

Jaskier lifted his head, his eyes shining with emotion, and met Geralt’s gaze. “Oh, you big old softie! Who says witchers don’t have feelings, huh?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and captured Jaskier’s lips again if only to shut him up. Though, his teasing chatter had been missed, even if Geralt would _never_ admit it.

Jaskier eventually broke away, his lips red and slick. Pride swelled in Geralt’s chest at giving the bard that purely _debauched_ look. Without thinking, he raised a hand and ran a thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. A wide smile crossed the bard’s face as he took Geralt’s hand in his. “Unless you want your little lion cub to see some things that are _far_ too inappropriate for her, we should probably save the more risque behavior for later and make a journey outside.”

Geralt huffed softly in amusement. It was impossible to keep that little bubble of fondness in his chest from expanding. Having Jaskier back—the _real_ Jaskier—made his heart swell with joy. Whatever their new relationship was, he would take it. “I’m sure she’s seen worse. You remember how Eist and Calanthe were.”

Jaskier’s eyes danced with mirth as he shuddered with all the melodrama he could muster and groaned in disgust. “They were certainly _affectionate._ ”

“I’m not sure if affectionate is the right word for it,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed and pure mirth danced in his eyes. “Poor Cirilla. How in Melitele’s name did she ever manage?”

“Just fine, I’m sure.” Without another word, Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek and allowed his lips to explore the bard’s jawline.

“You wicked, _wicked_ man. Now that you have me, you just can’t get enough, can you?” Jaskier said, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm.

“Hmm.”

Gently, Jaskier pushed Geralt back just a little so they could lock eyes. The warmth of just a few seconds before had disappeared. “I, uh, Geralt. Whilst I’m glad that we’ve finally taken this new step in our blossoming relationship, there’s still so much we haven’t discussed. The mountain, Nilfgaard, my memories. All of it, really,” he said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“And we will. I promise, lark. Would you like to see Ciri now?”

Jaskier’s cheeks reddened beautifully at the nickname and he nodded. Together, they walked to the door and stepped out.

The bard’s recovery would be a long road filled with obstacles and doubts, but at least they would have each other. Even though Geralt didn’t know whether Jaskier would be able to play again or if he would ever truly recover from the trauma Nilfgaard inflicted, he knew he would always stay by Jaskier’s side.

Love was funny like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't believe how out of hand this story got! It really was originally intended to be a one-shot. Oops!
> 
> In any case, I didn't write in a Ciri-Jaskier reunion because it felt more natural to end the story here. I may eventually add a little companion fic that showcases their reunion and all of that, but for now, it's safe to say that this is the end.
> 
> In the near future, I will be writing a lot more Geraskier stuff and I'm toying around with a few verses. (Modern AU bodyguard fic anyone? :p)
> 
> As always, here is my [Tumblr!](https://katekarnage7.tumblr.com) Thank you for all of your support <3

**Author's Note:**

> All righty! Thank you so much for reading this first chapter.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://katekarnage7.tumblr.com/) if you want to send me prompts or giggle with me over our boys.


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